


Twist And Then Collide

by bananasandboots



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Coma, M/M, Nurse Louis, Photographer Harry, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:01:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 113,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananasandboots/pseuds/bananasandboots
Summary: "These instances can last anywhere from a few days to a few months," one doctor says. "Or they can persist indefinitely.""Indefinitely?" Louis questions, the only one of them able to find his voice. He keeps throwing cautious glances at Harry, searching to make sure he's okay, to make sure he's still with them, still breathing. Harry wishes he wouldn't. He swallows the bile rising up the back of his throat, audibly exhaling through his nose, sharp breaths, small breaths. It's all he can do to keep from emptying his stomach."Travis is in a coma," the doctor says. "There's no way to be certain how long it might last."Or, the one where Harry's boyfriend falls into a coma and Harry falls for his boyfriend's best friend.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hii I'm back! I'm not sure I ever actually left, but I did spend the better part of the past year struggling to make this fic work. It's still nowhere near complete, but I'm tired of waiting and anyone following along on tumblr is also tired of waiting, so here it is! Part One! I hate WIPs just like the rest of us, but I'm hoping that posting what I have so far will force me to finish faster due to sheer guilt. If not, I'm really, truly sorry. You can yell at me in the comments or on tumblr to hurry up, but please do so with kindness so I don't cry, thanks.
> 
> **Warnings:** Descriptions of a car accident, Original Character in a coma. Mentions of surgery, breathing problems, heart problems, complications that can come from being in a coma. Minor anxiety struggles.
> 
> This is a story about Harry falling for Louis while Harry's boyfriend is in a coma. I'm not sure if that would be considered cheating, given the circumstances, but let it be known that the relationships do _not_ ever exist simultaneously while all parties are conscious. If you have any questions about that, just message me [here](http://anylessreal.tumblr.com/) and I'll explain it better with possible spoilers. You can also message me or leave a comment if you think I should add any additional warnings.
> 
> **This is a Work In Progress, coming to you in four parts, two of which are unwritten. This first part is basically one giant prologue/exposition with only little fleeting moments of possible H/L romance.** Just thought I'd remind you before you read on.
> 
> Huge thanks to anyone who's encouraged me to keep writing this, and an even bigger thanks to my weekly fic anon who never stopped asking for progress updates! I never would have finished this part without you. <3

The wind whips through Harry's hair as he cuts across the pavement, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand, a bag of pastries tucked under his arm. His eyes start to tear up as he approaches the black car at the curb. The leaves crunch under his feet, his nose twitches in the cold, and his boyfriend does nothing but cackle at him when he throws open the passenger door and practically leaps inside.

"Shut up," Harry huffs, dropping their coffees into the center console and blowing a hot breath into his hands. "Why's it so cold? October _literally_ just started."

"Are those tears in your eyes?" Travis teases, twisting in his seat so he can thumb at whatever moisture might have collected beneath Harry's eyelashes. Harry swats his hand away.

"Just drive," he mutters. "We're already running late. The flight's supposed to land any minute now."

Travis takes a small sip of his coffee but still doesn't put the car into gear. "Relax," he says, plucking the bag from Harry's lap and pulling out a croissant. "You're forgetting how long it'll take him to get his luggage and go through customs. If Louis has to wait an extra five minutes for us, then tough luck to him. He's already sleeping on our couch for four weeks. I'm not sure there's any room left for him to complain."

Harry rolls his eyes and buckles his seatbelt. "You're just upset about the sex."

"And you're not upset enough," Travis insists. "No one likes to have silent sex, Styles. Least of all, you."

"I reckon I'll manage for a month," Harry says and leans across the center console to kiss his boyfriend on the cheek and lick a flake of croissant from the corner of his lips. "Start driving, babe. And stop getting crumbs all over yourself."

"Yes, your royal highness."

"Hey," Harry frowns and pinches Travis' arm as Travis starts to laugh at him. "I just don't want you looking like a slob when Louis gets here."

"Why not?" Travis asks. "He's my best mate, not yours. I've known him since I was six. I'm pretty sure he's already seen the worst of me."

Harry doesn't say anything. All morning long, all _week_ long, Travis has been fighting him on everything. While Harry's been scrubbing the flat clean, bleaching the bathroom, running to the store to make sure they have enough spare blankets and pillows, Travis has been leaving dishes about, saving his laundry until the last minute, eating everything in their fridge he can get his hands on. And even now, they're still parked at the curb, still running late.

"Babe," Travis says softly, twisting the key out of the ignition and rotating in the driver's seat to fully face Harry. Harry sighs and slowly turns to meet his gaze, letting Travis pull his hands out of his lap and link their fingers together. "Styles, you've been a nervous wreck all week," he says. "I'm not sure what's gotten into you, but it's just Louis. He's just like the rest of the lads. He's going to like you whether I've made a mess of this car or our flat or myself or not. So calm down and just be yourself, yeah?"

"But he's like family to you," Harry argues. "You said he's basically your brother."

"Right," Travis nods, squeezing his hands. He gets this wry look on his face. "Now you can't say you've never met my family."

Harry shakes his head and tries to pull his hands back. "Not the same."

"Then stop acting like it is," Travis tells him, still holding tight. "Baby. Come on."

It's a sore subject, an argument they've had plenty of times, and not one they need to delve back into at the moment, but Harry can't help it.

"I can't act like it's the same if I have nothing to compare it to," he says bitterly. He manages to pry his hands from his boyfriend's grip and tuck them under his arms.

Travis is quiet for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on the side of Harry's face, probably trying to burn holes through his skull and probe at a few of his thoughts. But then he sighs, long and tired and hard-suffering, and starts the engine again.

"You don't want to meet my parents," he says for what feels like hundredth time as he finally pulls onto the road and starts heading for the airport.

They've been together for almost three years.

"You keep saying that," Harry says. "But sometimes, it sounds more like you don't want them to meet _me."_

"That's absurd, and you know it."

"Do I?" Harry has to ask.

"You should."

"Why?"

"Because you're my boyfriend," Travis states, eyes locked on the road. "And I fucking love you."

Harry huffs out a breath and stares out the window. "Romantic."

"I'm serious," Travis continues. "You're the best person I know. You're ridiculously charming, you're always looking out for everyone. I don't even think I've seen you kill a fly. You're just _good,_ Styles. And my parents... Sometimes, they just aren't. You don't want to meet them."

As if taking a pair of shears to the end of the conversation, he turns the radio on and adjusts the volume until it's too loud to talk over. Harry's used to it. It's how this always ends. He sinks further into his seat and sips at his coffee, tries to make some sort of sense of it, of the boy he loves not wanting him to meet his family.

If Louis is as close as he's going to get, then yes, Harry intends to make a good first impression.

"Just be yourself," Travis advises once the airport comes into view and Harry hasn't said a word for twenty minutes. He grabs his phone from the console and holds it out for Harry to take. "Can you text him? Let him know we'll be there in five minutes."

"Yes, your royal highness," Harry deadpans as they come to a stop at a busy intersection. He enters Travis' passcode and tries not to cringe at the photo of himself on the home screen, shirtless and suntanned, still laughing into his drink in the back garden of his mum's house. He really can't complain. His own home screen isn't much better.

"Thanks, love," Travis murmurs distractedly, checking the airport signs while waiting for the light to change.

Harry nods and opens up a blank text to Louis.

In the days, weeks, and months to follow, he's not going to remember much of what happens next. Not the light turning green and the car rolling forward. Not the screech of the other car's brakes or the steady blare of the horn growing louder and louder from the wrong direction. He's not going to remember Travis swearing or the sheer panic in his voice, the sight of his knuckles, white against the dark steering wheel, holding tight, bracing for impact. He's not going to remember any of that.

All he's going to remember is the jolt, the crunch of metal on metal, the Range Rover slamming straight into the side of Travis' tiny car.

But the brakes screech, the horn beeps, Travis swears, and suddenly Harry's entire body is being jerked sideways with a sickening force.

He must black out for a few seconds.

"Trav," he groans, blinking his eyes open to find the airbags deployed, the car spun halfway across the intersection, hot coffee spilled across his lap. Everything fucking hurts. "Travis," he tries again, shifting, breathing through the dust as he turns. "Baby?"

One look to his right and he knows with a sick flood of panic to his heart that Travis isn't going to answer.

"Oh, fuck," he stammers, fingers shooting to his seatbelt and fumbling with the release. He nearly crawls over the center console trying to get to Travis. There's blood. A lot of blood. And it's all dripping down the side of his boyfriend's head. "Travis, baby, come on," he begs, running a hand up Travis' arm. "Come on, wake up babe. You gotta stay with me. We gotta get out of here."

Nothing.

He thrusts his door open, cars already stopped on the side of the road, strangers rushing toward them. He needs an ambulance. He needs to call a fucking ambulance.

"Where the fuck is your phone?" he sputters, diving beneath the airbags to search the floor. "I need- Fuck. Where is it? Come on."

He finds it, but his fingers are shaking so bad he can't even type Travis' passcode again. He leans his head out the door.

"Someone call an ambulance!" he cries, voice ripped from his lungs. There's so much blood. Holy shit, there's so much blood. "Trav, look at me," he says as he takes Travis' face into his trembling hands, fingers slipping in the blood running down past his ear. "Open your eyes, Trav. _Fuck_ , come on."

And then, by some miracle, Travis starts to stir.

"Shit, baby," Harry exhales, relief briefly washing over him. "You're alright. You're gonna be alright. Stay with me."

Travis' eyelids flutter but don't fully open. He winces, tries to move, groans when the pain shoots through him. Harry soothes his thumbs over his cheekbones.

"Just breathe," he tries. "Someone's called for an ambulance. They're coming to get you, but you just have to hold on a bit longer. Just breathe."

He can feel the people milling about around the wrecked car, a presence waiting to help but not sure how. He doesn't even know where the other car is, they've spun so far away from the point of collision that they're facing the complete opposite direction. He doesn't really care where the other car is. The other driver is the least of his concerns.

He feels the tension in Travis' face start to slip. His head starts to fall.

"Trav, please," Harry urges, begs him to hold on. "Stay with me. Come on. They're on their way. Love, you have to keep fighting."

He runs his fingers up and down Travis' cheeks, trying to get him to stay awake, but it's a loosing battle. His consciousness is already faltering, flickering in and out, and Harry doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do. He needs to get Travis out of the car, but he doesn't want to move him. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. It could just be his head, but there could also be something worse going on. He doesn't know. He's not a doctor. He's not a fucking medic.

He lets his fingers slip from Travis' face, his entire left hand covered in blood.

He sits back and takes a ragged breath, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

Outside, he spots the other car, the entire front of it broken apart, the bonnet popped open and the engine smoking. Someone's helping the driver stumble out of the front seat.

Another car door slams shut nearby.

"Sir?" a voice calls from outside. "Sir, I'm a surgeon. I can help your friend, but I can't get to him. His door is smashed in. If you're able to step outside, I can see what I can do."

"Boyfriend," Harry pointlessly corrects on an exhale. "He's my boyfriend."

And Harry can't lose him.

He takes one last look at Travis, his head resting against the side airbag, dark blood staining the shattered window. His stomach clenches. He forces himself to get out of the car.

With his legs shaking, his own blood trickling out of the scrape on his forehead, his breath coming rough and uneven, he hunches over the boot and waits for the ambulance to arrive. There's nothing else he can do. He can't save his boyfriend, he can't help him, he can't even sit in there and hold his fucking hand.

He throws up right there, right in the middle of the road.

And then he hears the distant sound of sirens.

\---

It takes them five minutes to pull Travis from the car, and in those five minutes Harry fights off no less than three paramedics that try to sit him down in the back of the first ambulance and search him for any injuries.

"I'm fine," he nearly growls at the last one as they shine a light in his eyes to check for signs of a concussion. "I promise you I'm alright. I just- That's my boyfriend you have strapped to that gurney. Shouldn't you be helping him?"

"We're doing everything we can," the paramedic does a terrible job of reassuring him. "You need to relax."

"Relax?" Harry asks, growing more and more hysterical with each minute they spend trying to stick a plaster on his forehead instead of racing Travis off to the hospital. "He's unconscious. He's bleeding all over the place. I've got his blood on my hands, and you're telling me to relax?"

"We'll take him to the hospital as soon as he's secured within the other ambulance," the paramedic offers. "Is there anyone you can call? Anyone that can meet you there?"

A list of names flashes through Harry's head. Niall, Liam, his sister, his mum, but they're three hours away, Travis' parents, but he's never even met them, never even spoken to them, and Louis.

Fucking hell. _Louis._

"I need to call my-" His what? His friend? He's only ever said a handful of words to Louis over the years and they've always been shouted down the line while Travis had him on speakerphone. "We were on the way to the airport. Travis' friend is waiting for us."

"Would you like me to call them?" the paramedic offers.

Harry shakes his head, fingers slipping into his jacket pocket and pulling out Travis' blood-smeared phone. Christ. His hands are still trembling but he manages to press all of the right buttons this time. He holds the phone to his ear and waits as it rings once, twice, and then Louis picks up.

"Trav?" Louis answers automatically. "You almost here? It's fucking cold outside."

"It's... It's Harry," Harry corrects him, feeling sick to his fucking stomach. He can hear it in his own voice how shaken up he is. "We were just in an accident. It's not... It's not good. Travis isn't responding. They're taking him to the hospital, and I-"

"What?" Louis cuts him off, his words rushing out in an exhale. "He's not responding?"

"He was bleeding from the head," Harry barely manages to get out. Oh god. His boyfriend is strapped to a gurney and bleeding from the head. "I don't know what happened. We were on our way to get you and this car just came out of nowhere, and now he's unconscious, and I can't- I can't-"

"Just breathe, Harry. Try to stay calm. I'll meet you at the hospital." He pauses to listen to the sound of Harry's choppy breath, but Harry can't get it under control. He thinks he might pass out. "Is there anyone you can give the phone to?" Louis asks. "Someone with the ambulance?"

"Yeah," Harry chokes out, catching the paramedic's eye. "Yeah, I just- Hold on."

He tries to wipe the blood from the screen but his sleeve is covered in it too.

"I've got it, love," the paramedic assures him, taking the phone with a gloved hand and putting it on speaker.

Harry tries not to listen as they rattle off the basic details to Louis. They give him the hospital name and address and instructions on where to go once he gets there, and then they start explaining the situation. Harry just folds his head between his knees and takes shallow breath after shallow breath, his entire head spinning, pulse racing, heart pounding almost painfully hard behind his ribcage.

When he glances up, Travis is just about loaded into the back of the other ambulance. The first set of paramedics climbs in after him, pull the doors shut, turn on the sirens, and then they're off. And Harry isn't with him.

"Harry?" his own paramedic says, handing the phone back to him, the screen black and wiped clean of any blood.

Harry just blinks at them, his heart in his throat.

"Your friend is going to meet us there," the paramedic tells him. "He said he'd call Travis' parents and let them know what's going on. Are you ready to go?"

Harry glances over at Travis' car, the driver's side completely smashed in, glass shattered across the road. There's a handful of police out, directing traffic around them, the lights atop their cars flickering in blues and reds. Harry hasn't spoken to any of them yet but he saw them questioning the other driver already and talking to the surgeon who'd tried to help.

He suspects if he sticks around any longer, they'll try to talk to him too.

"Just get me out of here," he says before he and the three remaining medics all buckle up in back of the ambulance and take off for the hospital.

\---

By the time they arrive, Travis has already been wheeled off to get a head scan. A doctor pulls Harry into an already busy emergency room and sits him down on one of the empty tables. They take off his ruined jacket, poke and prod at him and ask if anything hurts or feels out of the ordinary. Nothing does. He's just bruised, just recovering from the whiplash, from hitting his own head on the airbag. They rule out a possible concussion. They help him get cleaned up, wash the blood off his hands and scrub it out from under his fingernails. They put a plaster over the scrape on his forehead.

"You need to breathe," the doctor tells him. "Travis is going into surgery and he's going to be in there for a while. We can't have you passing out in the waiting room while he's on the table."

Harry swallows hard, nods, takes a shuddery breath.

"Okay," he manages, the rest of his words getting caught in his throat.

He can't stop shivering in just his thin white t-shirt and his coffee-soaked jeans as he makes the slow walk back to the waiting room. Several pairs of tired eyes glance up at him, each of them waiting for their own loved one to come out in one piece. Harry's never felt more scared shitless in his entire life.

He starts heading for a seat in the far corner, Travis' phone held tight in his grip, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he passes a man hurrying towards the front desk with a suitcase rolling behind him. He'll need to call his mum. And the restaurant. And the tow company. He's going to have to sort everything out for the both of them until Travis is stable and well-rested and out surgery. He doesn't even know where they're taking the wrecked car. He doesn't even know who to call to find out.

"Harry?"

The man's footsteps come to an abrupt stop less than two paces behind him. They both turn around.

"Hi," Louis greets him. He looks exactly like the boy in the pictures, in the blurry video chats seen over Travis' shoulder, in the little image next to his name in Travis' phone. "Sorry it took me so long to get here. Traffic was all backed up and the driver didn't know where he was going, and I-"

He stops, cuts himself off mid-sentence just as the first, terrible sob rips through Harry's lungs and has him burying his face in his trembling hands.

"Oh god," Louis murmurs, immediately pulling him into his arms like they're best friends, like he's known Harry for years. "It's alright," he soothes. "It's alright. Everything's going to be alright."

"You don't know that," Harry gasps into Louis' shoulder. "You didn't see him."

"I'm a nurse, Harry. I see shit like this every day." He rubs a hand across Harry's back, thumb brushing up and down his spine. "Did they tell you anything yet? Did they say where he is?"

"He's in surgery," Harry says with a hard sniffle. "They did a head scan. I don't know what's wrong."

"Okay," Louis nods, pulling him closer. "God, you're freezing. You've got goosebumps all over. Where's your jacket?"

Harry shakes his head, shrugs. "It was covered in blood."

His boyfriend's blood. His boyfriend, who's in surgery, who was bleeding enough to ruin his jacket.

"Good thing I've got an entire suitcase full of clothes," Louis says. "Come on, let's get you into something warm."

He leaves an arm draped across Harry's back as he leads them to the empty chairs in the corner of the waiting room. His fingers curve around Harry's bare bicep, rubbing up and down to get some heat back in his skin. Harry doesn't sit until Louis basically pulls him into the chair beside him, and even then, he remains hunched over, head between his knees, struggling to catch his breath.

"I tried calling Travis' parents on the way here," Louis says as he starts digging through his suitcase. "Neither of them answered the house phone but I left a message to call back. My mum said she'd keep trying. I don't have either of their mobile numbers."

"Trav should," Harry wheezes at the ground. He unlocks Travis' phone again and passes it to Louis as Louis hands him an oversized red hoodie. "Doncaster Rovers?" he reads off the front. Travis is going to cringe so hard when he sees him wearing this.

"Not a fan?" Louis raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know," Harry shrugs as he slips his arms through the holes and fumbles with the rest to get it over his head. "I haven't had the chance to see them play."

Louis frowns. "Really?"

Harry quietly shakes his head. "You know how Travis is about football."

Louis only furrows his brow even more. He doesn't say anything though, glancing down at Travis' phone instead, at the picture of Harry on the beach. "Cute," he comments absently, and then he squints for a second. "Hang on, have you got four nipples?"

Harry chokes on a laugh, the sound of it mixing with his miserable, rattling breath. He sounds terrible. He feels terrible. This isn't helping.

"Your best friend is having emergency surgery," he croaks, "and you're asking me how many nipples I have?"

"I mean... yes?"

Harry rolls his teary eyes. "God, you're just as stupid as he is."

"Is it really four?" Louis presses.

"Yes," Harry sighs. "Now call his parents and tell them what's happening."

"Are you sure you don't want to?" Louis asks, only half joking as he scrolls through Travis' contacts.

"I've never spoken to them," Harry says. His stomach churns. If they answer the phone, if they come down to London to see their only son, if they aren't half as awful as Travis makes them out to be, Harry is going to meet them. This isn't how it was supposed to happen. Not with Travis in the state he's in. Not at the worst moment in their lives.

"How long have you been dating him?" Louis briefly glances up from the phone as Harry wipes his face on his sleeve.

"Almost three years," he mumbles. "He doesn't want me to meet them."

"Probably for the best," Louis shrugs. "They're kind of shit. Never really liked me much, and I happen to think I'm quite likable."

He keeps scrolling as Harry pulls his feet up on the edge of his chair and hugs his knees to his chest. He's still shaking, not as bad as earlier, not as cold either, but still a ball of post-adrenaline-rush anxiety

"You need to eat something," Louis murmurs, frowning at the screen. "Your blood sugar is probably low. You're not taking deep enough breaths. If you keep this up, you're going to pass out."

"I'm not hungry," Harry tells him. "I don't want to leave."

What if something happens? What if the doctor comes back with news and they aren't there to hear it? What if Travis comes out of surgery and starts asking for him?

"We don't have to leave," Louis promises nodding at the vending machine in the corner. "Go grab a packet of crisps or something. I'll give his parents a call." He brings Travis' phone to his ear, shoulders rising and falling as he takes a deep, steadying breath.

Hesitantly, Harry stands up from the seat. His vision takes a moment to come back into focus, head spinning, light and uncoordinated, his legs wobbling like nothing else. Before he can sit back down and regain his composure, he feels Louis' hand, steady and warm on his lower back.

"You're alright," he hears Louis murmur behind him.

He's not. They both know he isn't, but he's not sure he can stick around and listen to the impending phone conversation when it already stings that he's not the one having it in the first place.

It takes him an unreasonable amount of time to fish enough change from his wallet to pay for the crisps, fingers trembling, clammy, cold. He's not even sure he can stomach any food at the moment, not with how dry his mouth is, not with the way his insides feel like solid cement.

At least Louis is off the phone already by the time he sits back down, though he's not sure whether that's a good or bad thing.

"Travis' mum finally answered," Louis says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "They'll be here by tonight."

Harry nods, exhausted, unsure of how he's supposed to feel about that. On one hand, he's relieved that someone from Travis' family is on their way, that his parents care enough, that Travis is worth their time. But he's nervous too. Nervous about meeting them, nervous that he won't like them, nervous that he will when no one else does. He knows he'd been nagging Travis to introduce him to his parents just that morning, one of the last things they'd talked about over the drive to the airport. But meeting them like this? Scared out of his goddamn mind? He's not sure he can handle that.

"Harry?" Louis says, voice soft, like he's trying to find his footing in all of this. "I told them you were with him during the accident. I mentioned you were waiting here with me. They, um. They didn't know who you were... I'm not sure Travis ever told them about you."

Oh.

It's like the air just evaporates from Harry's lungs. He can't catch a fucking break.

"Okay," he says numbly, pulling his sleeves over his hands and folding his arms across his lap. He doesn't know what else there is to say. Travis isn't there for him to question, to get angry at, to look straight in the eyes and beg him to answer, after three years, _do I honestly mean that little to you?_

He's not there. He can't feed Harry any bullshit excuses. He can't pull Harry aside and promise him that it's not what it sounds like, that it has nothing to do with him, that it has everything to do with his parents, that he loves him, more than anything. Always more than anything.

He's just not there, and Harry can't be angry with him if he's not there.

"Mr. Styles?"

Harry tears his eyes away from the sorry look on Louis' face to find a pair of doctors waiting for him.

"Are you here alone?" one of them asks, their eyes kind with concern. "Is anyone from Travis' family with you?"

The blood runs cold in Harry's veins. His stomach drops. He can't handle any more bad news.

"It's just us," Louis answers, voice eerily calm. "His parents won't be here until tonight."

Both doctors nod, neither of them giving anything away. Harry can't fucking breathe.

"Would you mind coming with us?" the first doctor asks. "We'd like to discuss Travis' condition with you."

"He's out of surgery," the second doctor adds.

The words seem to register in Harry's head like footfalls echoing through an empty tunnel. One after the other, slow, steady, poignant, pinging. _He's out of surgery._

Travis is out of surgery.

Nothing else matters, not the coffee stains on Harry's jeans, not the blood matted in his hair, not the dull ache burning in his chest, the fact that Donna and Greg are on their way, not even the fact that they've never even heard his name. His boyfriend is out of surgery. Travis is out of surgery.

The footfalls stop, the echoes fade out through the other end of the tunnel. It takes all of Harry's remaining strength to stand up from his chair again and follow the doctors out of there.

And then his universe comes crashing down.

\---

Loss is a strange thing. It's taught as a definitive. Either you have or you don't, you're gaining or you aren't, you win or you lose. There's hardly any room for the in-between, the middle ground, that state of flux, of uncertainty, of not gaining or losing, but not remaining steady either. They always tell you how to deal with success, with failure, with life and growth, with death and destruction. What they don't tell you, is how you're supposed to move forward, keep breathing, how to close that hole in your heart and stitch yourself back together when it's not a win, when it's not a loss, when it just is what it is and there's no way to change it.

Travis doesn't wake up.

It sounds so simple stated in such few words.

It doesn't feel simple.

It feels incredibly, overwhelmingly, fucking _awful._

The doctors were able to get his situation under control. They were able to keep his heart going, stop the major bleeding, keep him alive and on the operating table, but there's immense pressure in his skull and there's swelling in his brain. He's out. His brain isn't functioning the way it should, and the lack of activity they're monitoring matches that of a coma patient.

Harry's boyfriend is in a coma. Fucking _Christ._

"These instances can last anywhere from a few days to a few months," one doctor says. "Or they can persist indefinitely."

"Indefinitely?" Louis questions, the only one of them able to find his voice. He keeps throwing cautious glances at Harry, searching to make sure he's okay, to make sure he's still with them, still breathing. Harry wishes he wouldn't. He swallows the bile rising up the back of his throat, audibly exhaling through his nose, sharp breaths, small breaths. It's all he can do to keep from emptying his stomach.

"Travis is in a coma," the doctor says. "There's no way to be certain how long it might last. We're doing all that we can to help him recover, but there's only so much we can do. It's still too soon after the accident to know what to expect. We just need you to be prepared for the possibilities."

The possibilities. Because this could be over tomorrow. This could last months. It could last years. Travis could never wake up. Travis' heart could stop before he opens his eyes. He could die in this hospital, alone and unaware, rooted to his bed.

A fresh wave of nausea lurches up from the pit of Harry's stomach. He covers his mouth with the back of his sleeve, gags as he squeezes his eyes shut. God. He's going to be sick. There's barely anything left in his stomach worth throwing up, and yet, he's sure he's going to be sick.

"Sorry," he blurts as he stands, chair sliding back across the carpeted floor. He nearly topples over it on his way out of the room, no concern for the doctors he's leaving behind, no concern for Louis and the worried look on his face. He needs air. He needs to be outside. He needs to not think about his boyfriend dying. He needs to _not think._

He finds the same doors he'd been ushered in through hours earlier. As soon as he's through them and breathing that chilly October air again, he hunches over the first bin he sees and empties his entire stomach into the bottom. He shakes, he convulses, he heaves and heaves, and it's worse than before. Worse because he can't stop. Worse because he's been holding onto hope all morning long and he doesn't have much left. Worse because he's done everything he could, because the doctors have tried everything, because everyone's done everything in their power to keep Travis whole and unbroken, and it still isn't enough.

He grips the edge of the bin until his stomach aches, until his throat burns, until there's nothing left inside of him but the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins. He goes to wipe his face with his sleeve, and by the time he remembers it belongs to Louis, it's too late. He's a mess. He's such a fucking mess.

"Well, I guess I'm never getting that hoodie back."

Harry pushes his hair off his damp forehead, tries to clear his throat.

"I'll wash it for you later," he coughs miserably, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as Louis takes a seat along the brick half-wall behind them, pulling his feet up and criss-crossing his legs.

"How do you feel?" Louis asks.

"Like shit," Harry says, blinking tears away. "Like my boyfriend's had his head smashed in and won't wake up."

Louis nods. He holds out a bottle of water for Harry to take. "Try to drink some," he says. "And come have a seat."

He pats the wall beside him, collected and poised in a way that seems entirely unattainable. Harry doesn't know how he does it. He doesn't know how Louis manages to keep a level head, how he isn't sick to his stomach with fear, torn apart at the thought of Travis lying unconscious in a shitty hospital bed for the rest of his life. He doesn't know how Louis is just sitting there, patiently waiting for him to join, when he, himself, can hardly manage to breathe more than a jagged breath, can hardly function with how broken he is.

He accepts the water and sits down anyway, tries to take a sip with the entire bottle wobbling in his hand, winces as the water burns his throat on the way down.

Louis turns to him. "Did Travis ever tell you how we met?"

"I don't think so," Harry says. He coughs, tries to clear his throat, sniffles hard.

"We were six," Louis says quietly, arms folded around his middle, resting in his lap. "It was at some girl's birthday party, a mutual friend. Susan, I think her name was." He frowns a bit, just a small crease forming between his eyebrows as he tries to remember. "It was a princess party, so, naturally, once the cake was eaten and all the kids were worn out from games and playing dress-up, the mums sat us down on the couch and let us watch Sleeping Beauty."

Harry has to roll his eyes. The irony of it all.

"I'm serious," Louis says, corner of his mouth twitching feebly. "Of all the movies we could have watched, it was _Sleeping_ fucking _Beauty."_

"I can't kiss Travis awake," Harry exhales roughly, pulling at the label on the water bottle. "Life doesn't- It doesn't work like a fairytale."

"No, it doesn't," Louis agrees. "And Travis knows that. He knew it even when he was six years old, and he knows it now. The prince saved the day and kissed the princess awake, and Travis was so unimpressed by all of it that he refused to let me get up from the couch until I had listened to him rant for a good thirty minutes."

"He's always been a complainer," Harry says with a weak smile. He knows he'd probably be getting an earful right now if Travis could talk. Moaning on about reckless drivers, about having a hole in his head, about destroying his car and getting coffee and blood all over his favorite boots. Harry should buy him new ones. For when he wakes up. If he wakes up. Fuck.

"He knows you can't kiss him out of this," Louis says, meeting Harry's teary eyes and holding his gaze like he needs Harry to listen and listen well. "I've seen this in Chicago, in my hospital before. Sometimes the patients heal and get better, and they wake up, and sometimes they don't. Travis isn't going to get better until he's ready, and nothing you do can change that."

Harry nods, shoulders rising and falling as a heavy shudder rolls through his lungs. It hurts. Knowing he's as useless and helpless as he feels just _hurts._ But it's the truth, isn't it? Whether or not Travis wakes up is completely out of his hands. It's almost out of the doctors' hands. No one can wake him. All they can do is promise to be there, to take care of him, to help him through to whatever end there is.

"He's Sleeping Beauty," Louis says. "And as cheesy as it sounds, you're the prince. He doesn't need you to wake him up. He just needs you to slay a few dragons or whatever while he's out so you're still here when he gets better. Just keep breathing. That's all you have to do for him for now."

He tries to get Harry to copy him, a long breath in, a long breath out, but Harry's head is just _swimming_ with terrible thoughts. He can't focus. He can't get through this.

"Come on," Louis quietly urges. "Just try to breathe with me."

Harry's lungs rattle. His whole body shakes.

In, he thinks. And out. In. And out. In. Out. Over and over, not as slow and nowhere near as steady as Louis, but he tries. He fucking tries.

"Good," Louis encourages him. "Keep going. You're almost there."

He's not, but that doesn't stop Louis from sitting with him out in the cold for another fifteen minutes, until he's taking deep enough breaths, until his tears have all but stopped, until he's blown his nose about six hundred times and sipped away at half of his water bottle.

"The doctors are going to discuss the short term and long term plans with Travis' parents when they arrive," Louis says once everything's calmed down enough, once he's stopped looking at Harry like he's afraid he might fall over if the wind blows too hard.

Harry nods, still doesn't say anything.

"They said we can go see him in a few hours," Louis adds. "We're not exactly allowed in the room just yet, but we can still watch him through the window. They don't want any extra brain stimulation until the swelling goes down."

Harry doesn't question it. He just wants to see that his boy is still breathing. He just wants to see the little spikes in his heart-rate monitor that tell him he's still alive.

"Okay," he says quietly. He takes another sip of water. "Do you want to know how I met Travis?"

It was three years ago, another crisp, autumn day. It feels like ages ago. It feels like an entire lifetime ago.

"How?" Louis asks, waiting for the story.

"It was through a window," Harry says. "He was outside and I was inside, and for some reason, I decided to take his picture. It wasn't because the sun was just right or because the background was anything extraordinary. He didn't even look particularly good that day. I just wanted his picture."

"Just so we're clear," Louis says, "Travis doesn't look particularly good _any_ day."

"I mean, I beg to differ," Harry argues with the saddest, weakest smile his mouth can manage. His boyfriend is his favorite thing to look at, every part of him more handsome and stunning than the next. "He caught me taking the photo," he says, remembering that day. "He came inside, and I tried to play it off all cool, but he insisted on having coffee with me as payment."

"He would," Louis laughs softly, the sound of it strange in a setting like this, at a time like this. Somehow, it makes it easier for Harry to breathe. "He's always been cocky like that. Always knows how to bat his eyelashes and get what he wants."

"Yeah," Harry nods. "He's a sweet-talker."

"You really met him through a window?" Louis asks.

"I did," Harry sighs, one last shudder making its way up his spine. "And now I get to do it all over again."

\---

They don't spend too much time outside of Travis' room once they're allowed up to see, watching him through the glass, staring at his lifeless body. There's just no point in it. Travis can't hear them. He can't see them. He doesn't even know anyone's there. It kind of breaks Harry's heart.

The room is dark inside. Dark and quiet and clean. About a dozen different tubes and wires connect Travis to the machines blinking and whirring away behind his bed. He looks like a tragedy. He looks like he's barely hanging on, silently withering away, his head wrapped in a giant bandage, dark bruises under his eyes, a tube shoved down his throat to keep him breathing.

"He looks like a corpse," Harry whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. "He looks like a goddamn fucking corpse."

"I know," Louis mutters, staring through the glass. "He's going to hate that we saw him like this."

"He is," Harry mumbles, chest aching like someone's trying to tear a hole through his heart. He can't stay here any longer. He feels like he's ready to collapse all over again. "I can't do this. You can stay if you want, but I'll be in the waiting room."

"I'm right behind you," Louis sighs and drags himself away from the window.

As they wait for the lift to come back, Louis leans against the wall, calm and composed in a way Harry can't imagine ever being in a situation like this. He kind of hates it. He hates that Louis is a nurse and much better equipped to deal with things like this. He hates that it makes Louis seem like a robot, telling him what to do, where to go, not even flinching at any of the bad news they've gotten. He hates that it makes him seem like a headcase in comparison.

"How are you not terrified?" he has to ask as they file into the lift.

Louis glances up from the buttons beside the door after pressing the appropriate floor, his eyes sharp and blue, hooded beneath his eyelashes. "Me?" he asks, a little perplexed. "You don't think I'm as scared as you are?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugs. "I haven't seen you puke in a bin yet."

"Probably because I've been too busy making sure you don't collapse on me," Louis tells him. "This is what happens when you grow up with six younger siblings. You end up taking care of everyone else before yourself."

"You have _six_ siblings?" Harry raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Louis nods, joining Harry at the back of the lift, "and they're all annoyed that I'm back in England for the first time in nine months and won't be seeing them for another three weeks."

"Why not?" Harry asks. He's here for a month. That's plenty of time to go home in between everything he must have planned.

"Job interviews," Louis explains.

"You're moving back?" Harry asks, surprised.

"If all goes well," Louis shrugs. "I've been in Chicago long enough. I reckon it's time to come home for good."

That's... that's news. Travis had made it sound like this was just a little vacation for him, a month of screwing around in London with his best mate before going back to his life in Chicago.

"Does Travis know?" Harry frowns.

"Not yet," Louis says. "It was supposed to be a surprise, actually. He's wanted me to move back ever since I first left. I actually have an interview with this hospital next week. Maybe he can put in a good word for me."

Harry rolls his eyes as the lift comes to a stop on the ground floor. "This is why I can't believe you're scared. Your best friend is in a bloody coma and you're already cracking jokes about it."

"Would you rather I have a good cry?" Louis asks, fixing him a hard look.

"Misery loves company," Harry sighs. "It would at least make me feel less like an emotional wreck."

"You've been fine," Louis reassures him. "He's your boyfriend. You love him. Any reasonable human would be worried sick if they were in your place."

"And you?" Harry asks. "Are you not a reasonable human?"

"I," Louis starts as they make their way back to the waiting area, "am running on two hours of sleep from an eight hour flight across the Atlantic. I haven't showered in two days. I've been living off of airplane food and hospital food, neither of which are any good, and I've been in desperate need of a smoke since getting off that plane. I'm just trying to get through today in one piece, Harry. And if that means holding everything in until I'm locked in your bathroom and you can't hear me cry, then that's what I'm going to do."

He shrugs like it's that simple, like it's not a huge deal, not a huge struggle, like it's just standard practice and that's what he's used to. It's older sibling syndrome, he's probably right. And being a nurse must help, always having to keep everything bottled up until he knows it's safe to let it out, out of sight, out of earshot, out of mind.

"The bathroom's right next to the bedroom," Harry says dully, rounding the corner and finding the same handful of people waiting in the same seats they've been in all day. "If you're going to have a cry, you better do it outside where I can't hear you."

"Noted," Louis says as he leads them back to their corner of the room. He digs his phone from his pocket before he sits, shoulders rising and falling with another tired breath, the smallest hint that yeah, he's feeling everything too, but before he can unlock the screen, it buzzes to life in his hand. He glances at it, reads the single line of text off the screen, and sets his fork down. "Travis' mum and dad are nearly here," he says. Harry's stomach flips again, nerves piling up inside. "Are you ready to meet your boyfriend's parents?"

In all the years Harry's known Travis, of all the times he's tried to get to this point, he doesn't think he's been less ready, less prepared.

"Am I going to hate them?" he asks, heart already stuttering in his chest.

"Maybe not at first," Louis muses as he types out a response on his phone. "But probably soon enough."

\---

Harry recognizes Mr. and Mrs. Lowell as soon as they enter the room. Travis is built just like his father, tall and toned, all strong limbs and long legs, like an athlete if Harry ever saw one. He's got his mum's face, her dark eyes, dark hair, her straight nose and thin lips. It's strange, seeing Travis' parents like this, knowing that this is where Travis gets his bony fingers and knees and elbows from, his thick eyebrows, his thick eyelashes, all of his parts and pieces, all of the ones that Harry loves. It's like someone's taken Travis' body and split him into two halves, like Donna and Greg are the end result.

"That's basically what making a child is," Louis says when Harry tells him as much as they get up to greet them. "Only, you're imagining it in reverse."

He isn't wrong. Harry has to give him that.

The Lowells greet him like any other parent whose son's just ended up in a coma would. They greet him like Travis has kept him a secret for the past three years. They greet him like they know absolutely nothing about him and the sight of him is just adding to the confusion of an already confusing and painful day.

"I'm sorry," Harry finds himself apologizing after he has to repeat his name for the third time. He's not sure what he's even sorry for. He just knows he's exhausted, and this - meeting Travis' parents like this - it just feels a bit fucked up. This entire day has been really fucked up. He's not sure how much longer he can last before he starts crying again.

"We just figured Travis would have at least mentioned Harry by now," Louis offers, putting into words the thoughts that have been quietly clawing away at the back of Harry's head all afternoon.

"This must be really difficult for you," Harry all but mumbles at his feet. "I didn't mean to make it even more complicated."

He'd just expected more from his boyfriend. They've been together for almost three years. It's not like Travis hasn't had enough opportunities to tell them.

"We don't... we're not on good speaking terms," Mrs. Lowell admits quietly, clutching at her husband's arm like a lifeline. "The last I spoke to Travis was- It was months ago."

"He hasn't been home since Christmas," Greg adds. "Donna and I... We try to keep up with him, but he doesn't... He's always so busy, isn't he?"

Harry doesn't say anything. It's not his place to get in the middle of this, whatever this is. He remembers last Christmas, remembers the argument he'd had with Travis when Travis had said he'd be going home _alone_ , remembers how it had blown up in his face, how miserable he'd been back in Holmes Chapel without his boyfriend. He just shrugs, continues staring at his boots, dark and worn against the sparkling tiles of the floor. He's tired. He wants to go home.

"Will you call us?" Louis asks, sensing as much as Harry starts to lean against the wall for support. "If anything changes tonight, will you let us know?"

"Of course," Donna tells him. With her free hand, she reaches out and gently touches Louis' elbow. "It's nice to see you, Louis," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice, something reverent, almost like regret. "We haven't had you around the house in a few years."

"Yeah," Louis nods, lips pressed in a thin line. "Not since Travis and I were teenagers, I reckon."

He takes a small step back, just enough to get Donna's hand to slip from his arm.

"How long are you in London for?" Greg asks.

"Four weeks."

"At Travis' flat?"

"Harry and Travis', yeah," Louis subtly corrects, his eyes flicking over to Harry, making sure he's still with them, still breathing. Harry's not really sure whether he is or not. He'd really like to sit, or not be here, or not have to do any of this.

Greg barely even glances at him.

"You'll have to tell us about it tomorrow," he says.

It doesn't settle right in Harry's ears. He feels the words dig under his skin, uncomfortable, unwarranted, the slight chill behind them prickling at the hairs on his arms until he's itching to leave. There's just something off about them. Of all the times to make subtle asides about his shitty relationship with his son, this, now, standing in the hospital waiting room, is not one of them.

"Sorry we had to meet like this," Harry says abruptly, kicking off the wall, unable to meet either of the Lowells' eyes.

He doesn't wait for a response. He just tucks his hands in the front pocket of his borrowed hoodie and starts heading for the sliding glass exit.

He can just imagine the annoying, satisfied look on Travis' annoying, gorgeous face if he were out here with him, leaning against the side of the building, trying not to let his frustration eat him from the inside out. _Relax, Styles,_ he'd say with that awful smirk of his. He'd pull at Harry's sleeve, loop an arm around his waist, tease and poke and prod until Harry would begrudgingly let himself get tugged against his boyfriend's side, and then he'd kiss Harry. Just on the cheek first, then the corner of his mouth, his nose, his chin, finally his lips. _They're just confused,_ he'd murmur, wrapping Harry up in his arms. _They don't know who you are, they don't know where we live, they probably feel like such arses for falling so far out of touch with me._

He'd be the voice of reason.

He'd be making excuses.

He'd try to kiss it all better between sweet and meaningless platitudes, and Harry would let him because he's running on his last few threads and he doesn't have the strength to argue with him. Not now.

But Travis isn't here tonight. He can't say any of these things to Harry, and it all just feels a little foolish, silly, letting something so minor and insignificant get the better of him at a time like this.

_Relax, Styles._

He tips his head back against the outside of the building and closes his eyes. He's okay. He knew what to expect. Travis had warned him about this. Louis had warned him about this. They weren't even _that_ bad.

He opens his eyes at the sound of the automatic doors sliding open again. Louis joins him against the building, his suitcase at his feet, mild but tired amusement lighting his eyes.

"Well," he says, pulling out his phone, "Travis is going to enjoy hearing about this when he wakes up."

"If he wakes up," Harry mumbles. He stands up straight, off of the wall. "At least they like you. You can invite them over for tea tomorrow."

Louis snorts. "They fucking hate me, mate. The last time I stepped foot in their house, I was eighteen years old and getting blamed for turning their son against them. They're just in shock," he says. "They can't remember who they hate and who they're supposed to like. Give it a few days and they'll warm up to you instead."

"They can't even remember my name." Harry rolls his eyes.

"Why do you care if they like you?"

An ambulance pulls up to the emergency entrance, a woman rolls out of the doors behind them in a wheel chair, the stars continue to pop out in the dark sky above them, and Harry honestly doesn't have an answer.

"I don't know," he says quietly. Because that's what any boyfriend would want? Because he doesn't wan't to be _disliked?_ Because it would prove Travis wrong?

"I've only known you for eight hours," Louis says, "and so far, you're probably the most likable of all the boys Travis has ever dated, snot and vomit and all. Travis doesn't care about his parents' opinion. If he wanted anyone to like you, he'd rather it be me than them."

"So I'm doing alright?" Harry asks sheepishly. "Even with the puking?"

"Even with the puking," Louis nods. He thumbs at the screen of his phone and brings it to his ear. "Ready to go home?" he asks as he listens to it ring.

It's not going to be much of a home without Travis there, and Harry will admit he's absolutely dreading having to crawl into his bed by himself and turn out the lights, having to will himself to sleep, but yeah. He needs to get away from this hospital. He needs to unwind. He needs to at least _try_ to get some rest.

He nods, heart heavier than ever, and waits for Louis to call a cab.

\---

The cab rolls to a stop just in front of the cafe around nine o'clock. It's quiet, the lights are off, Drea's already shut everything down and locked everything up for the night. Harry's stomach rumbles as he thinks of all the pastries and biscuits and cakes and coffees just on the other side of the glass. There won't be any food in the flat when they get inside. He and Travis had meant to run to the market after stopping at the airport.

"This is a cafe," Louis states, leaning across the middle seat to peer at the little row of shops before them.

Harry digs his wallet out and starts counting off bills for the driver, glad to finally leave the car, glad to get out of the metal death trap it now feels like. "We live in the flat above it," he says. "There's a separate door just to the side."

He glances up in time to see Louis' eyes lock on it, the unassuming black door situated between the sprawling cafe window and the entrance to the newsagent next door. It's nothing special, not in the least bit. The flat is tiny, just big enough for two people to sleep and eat and watch the occasional rom-com while cuddled up on the couch together. It's big enough that Harry could probably go inside, go upstairs, lock himself away in his and Travis' bedroom, and sleep unbothered until the moment Travis wakes up and comes home to join him.

With Louis occupying the living room for the next four weeks, the tiny flat isn't going to be _just big enough_ for anything.

By the time he finishes paying the driver and finds his way out of the car, Louis has his suitcase unloaded from the boot, waiting in front of the door. The cabbie waves them off and drives away, and then it's just the two of them, street lamps casting long shadows from overhead, the soft sound of his upstairs neighbor's television drifting out through the open window.

Harry pauses at the curb and blinks up at his own window, lights off, blinds drawn, just the way Travis had left everything that morning. He knows, when he climbs those stairs and unlocks that door, it's all going to look exactly as it had the moment they'd left, Travis' clothes still unfolded in the laundry basket, a newspaper open on the kitchen table, shoes scattered by the door. It hasn't even been twelve hours, and yet it feels like a small eternity has passed.

"I don't have to stay here," Louis says quietly, reading Harry's hesitation for something else. "If it's too much trouble, if it feels like I'm intruding and you just want to be alone, I can find somewhere else to go."

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry exhales, digging his key from his coat pocket. "You're Travis' best mate. I'm not putting you out on the streets just because he's not here."

"I won't be out on the streets," Louis shrugs. "I _do_ know other people in London - people you might know. Liam, for one."

"You don't want to stay with Liam."

"Some of my sister's friends."

Harry rolls his eyes and leans against the lamp post. "You'd rather stay with them?"

"Not really," Louis admits.

"Didn't think so," Harry nods. It seems to settle the matter. He twirls his set of keys around his finger and takes a deep breath. "Come on," he says, motioning for Louis to follow him.

With the last bit of strength he has left, he climbs the creaky set of stairs up to the first landing, Louis lugging his suitcase along behind them. His hand shakes as he tries to jamb the key into the next lock, but it jiggles open in the end, the door swinging in, his other hand automatically going for the light switch.

It's all just as they'd left it, just as he'd expected it would be, but it still takes him a moment to unstick his eyes from Travis' boots, to take in the sight of his coffee mug still sitting on the table by the door, to allow his lungs to breathe in their first real breath of air in the aftermath. Travis could be home any day. This doesn't have to feel permanent. This doesn't have to feel like forever.

"He's always leaving dishes everywhere," Harry mumbles with a quiet shake of his head. He goes to snag the mug from the table, but his fingers make it within three inches of the handle and he just can't bring himself to do it.

"It's okay," Louis says softly. "We'll get it tomorrow."

Harry leaves it there. He flicks on another light switch to illuminate the rest of the flat, their living room, the breakfast bar, the kitchen. The door to his and Travis' bedroom is wide open, their bed still visibly unmade. He can't stomach the thought of having to go inside and fix it all up again.

"You can still change your mind," Louis says, watching him carefully. "Just say the word and I'll book a hotel room."

"I'm starting to think you're looking for an excuse to leave," Harry says as he moves to take off his trainers.

"I'm not," Louis shakes his head. "I just feel like I'm intruding."

"You're not," Harry insists.

"Do you mind if I order a pizza?"

"You don't want to sleep?" Harry lets out a weighted breath.

"Jet lag," Louis shrugs.

"Okay," Harry nods. He isn't going to argue. He doesn't know what he's going to do. It's been the longest day of his life and he just wants it to stop. He just wants it to end. He's tired of feeling so fucking _much._

"Is pepperoni okay?"

Harry blinks at Louis. "It's your pizza. You can order whatever you like."

"I know," Louis says. He tucks his shoes beneath the shoe rack, next to a pair of Harry's old boots. "I like pepperoni."

"Then order pepperoni," Harry says. He starts walking away before Louis can find the chance to ask any other useless questions, pointing out the couch and blankets, the kitchen, the wifi password stuck to the fridge, the bathroom, finally his and Travis' bedroom.

"You'll be alright in there?" Louis asks, following him to the doorway, his suitcase still rolling behind him. He stands it up just outside, not daring to go any further. Harry doesn't blame him. He can hardly bring himself to turn on the light.

"I'll be asleep," he says. "I think I'll manage." He goes to finally flick the light on and shut the door between them, but something pulls at his chest and makes him stop. "Louis?"

"Hmm?"

"Listen, I'm sorry this... this wasn't how your first day home should have gone," he apologizes. The words seem to squeeze their way out of his throat. "I'm sorry you got stuck in this mess."

Louis' face softens, his tired eyes growing somehow even sadder as he looks up from his feet. He shrugs and tucks his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. "Don't apologize," he says. "Whatever you do from here on out, just don't apologize for the things you can't change."

Harry gets it. He does. But he's still so fucking sorry.

"Goodnight," he says.

Louis nods once and softly closes the door behind him, and then Harry's alone.

He's alone, and his bed is empty, his sheets twisted up, his duvet pulled to one side. He's alone, and Travis' clean laundry is still unfolded beside their closet, shirt sleeves and trouser legs draped over the basket, dangling towards the floor. He's alone, and there's a sock on the rug, a new coffee stain on the nightstand, a plant that needs watering, a pair of reading glasses on Travis' pillow.

All Harry wants to do is turn the lights out, crawl under his duvet, sleep, and heal, and figure out a way to keep breathing even when the growing hole of uncertainty keeps bleeding out into his chest.

Instead, he waits five minutes, goes back into the living room, folds himself into the corner of the couch beside an unexpectedly teary-eyed, red-faced Louis, and doesn't say a word.

"Pepperoni okay?" Louis asks again, voice thick as he swipes around on his phone.

Harry nods, picking at a hole in the cuff of his joggers.

"Notting Hill just started." Louis turns the volume up, wipes his nose on a kleenex he must have snagged from the bathroom.

Harry grabs a pillow and hugs it to his chest. "Perfect."

Two hours later, he's spread out across the couch, tucked under a thick blanket, finally giving in to the deep pull of sleep. Before he closes his eyes, he sees Louis pile a few pillows on the rug, watches him get down on his hands and knees, crawl into his makeshift bed, and click the television off. The room goes dark, and Harry's mind finally shuts down.

\---

Someone must get word out to half the population of England during the middle of the night, because Harry wakes up the next morning to more voice messages and unread texts than he's ever had in his life.

"You're not going to read them?" Louis asks, watching Harry turn his notifications off and set his phone on the coffee table as soon as the sun's up.

Harry blinks the sleep out of his eyes, the sour pull of his face turning soft when he looks down at the floor and sees Louis' ridiculous bed-head.

"Maybe later," he says, voice rough with whatever sleep he'd managed to get. "When I'm desperate for fake sympathy from people I barely know."

"You realize I only met you yesterday, yeah?"

"You don't count," Harry shrugs. "I already know how much you care about Travis. You're not faking anything."

"True," Louis allows, cocking his head to the side. He drags his own blanket up to his shoulders as he hugs his knees to his chest, his eyes warm, half open in the morning light, if not a little puffy from the night before. They don't mention the crying, but it does ease some of the knots in Harry's stomach to know he isn't the only one who's shed a few tears now.

"What's the plan for today?" Harry asks because he's not sure where they're supposed to go from here. The hospital is supposed to call if anything changes for better or worse, and if they're still not allowed to see Travis, to be up close, to hold his hand and feel for themselves that he's alive and breathing, then Harry's not sure it's even worth going to the hospital to visit him.

"How are you feeling?" Louis asks, watching him closely.

"Tired," Harry admits, giving his shoulders an experimental stretch. "Sore. Like I got hit by a car."

Like his boyfriend is in a coma.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

"And do what?"

"Anything," Louis suggests. "Get coffee, grocery shop, go for a walk, see the city. I know you don't want to sit in a hospital all day, so let's do something, even if it's as small as going downstairs and stopping at that cafe for a bit."

"We need food," Harry decides, his stomach rumbling despite his lack of appetite. "And caffeine."

He can already feel a headache coming on.

"Alright," Louis says, starting to push himself up off the living room floor. "I'll run downstairs and get us some coffee and then we'll go to the store. Anything else?"

Harry shakes his head, staring at Louis' bare legs. He's only wearing a hoodie and a pair of boxers, his jeans crumpled on the floor from where he'd shuffled out of them the night before. He picks them up and shakes them out, starts putting them back on, goosebumps all along his thighs. It won't be another month before the landlord turns the heat on again.

"Sorry it's so cold," Harry apologizes.

Louis rolls his eyes. "I'll live," he says. "Milk or sugar?"

"Neither," Harry answers.

Louis stops midway through pulling up his flies to stare at him, appalled. "Really?"

"Yes?"

"Did Travis get you into that?"

"No," Harry says quietly. But it's one of the first things they'd realized they'd had in common. He'd only known Travis for two minutes at the time.

"That's disgusting," Louis decides. "How can either of you drink it like that?"

Harry doesn't know. Harry just wants his coffee.

"Can you pick up a muffin, too?" he asks without answering.

Louis nods and bends down to fish a pack of cigarettes out of his open suitcase. He pulls one from the box and sticks it behind his ear.

"See you in a bit," he says.

Harry waits until he hears the door swing shut after Louis leaves before he forces himself to get off the couch, wincing at how much his body aches - from the accident, from sleeping on the couch, from everything he put himself through at the hospital. He slips into his and Travis' bedroom just long enough to grab a clean pair of skinnies and one of Travis' old jumpers, and then he climbs into the shower, turns the water on as hot as it can go, and waits for the sting of it to numb everything he's slowly starting to feel again.

\---

The nearest market is a ten minute walk from the flat. By the time they make it there and back with four loaded bags of fresh groceries, Harry's insides have all but tied themselves up again. The fresh air had helped clear his lungs, clear his head, wake him up. But now he's unpacking milk and eggs and tomato sauce and a cereal box, and the person helping him isn't his boyfriend, and it's been over an hour since he's checked his phone, and maybe he needs to spend the rest of the day in the hospital, after all.

"Just in case," he says feebly, when he tells Louis he might be having second thoughts. "I don't... I don't want him to be alone, is all. In case something changes. In case he starts waking up."

He can see the skepticism glowing behind Louis' eyes, but Louis doesn't say anything, doesn't tell him it's false hope or suggest the alternative reasons - in case something goes wrong, in case things get worse. He doesn't mention any of that.

"Okay," is all he says. "We can go back."

So they do.

And it's just as awful as Harry had imagined it would be, if not worse, because Travis' parents aren't even there and he's still not allowed in the room, and it just feels like the first day all over again. Trapped outside, waiting, wondering what the Lowells could possibly be doing that's more important than being with their son. Then again, Harry almost didn't show. He almost stayed at home. He almost called up the restaurant and asked to be put back on the schedule just to take his mind off of everything, just to let go. He's just as guilty.

"You okay?" Louis asks, when he must notice how quiet Harry is, just sitting outside Travis' window, eyes glued to his motionless boyfriend, trying to figure out how he's supposed to handle all of this.

"Is this what every day is going to be like?" he asks without answering. "Am I just going to keep waking up, dreading coming back here, feeling guilty when I don't and regretting it when I do? Is that how the waiting works?"

"Maybe it'll be different when he's in another room," Louis suggests, "when we can sit and watch telly with him all day, but this... This isn't making any difference for anybody. I kind of hate this."

Harry does, too. All of it.

"We'll stay another hour," he decides. "And then we're finding a pub and I'm having a drink."

Or several.

Louis nods. "Okay."

\---

They fall into a booth at the first pub they come across. Louis calls Liam, their only other mutual friend, and convinces him to ditch work for drinks, then he pokes at Harry's phone lying on the table and asks Harry for his best mate's name and number.

"Um, that would be Niall," Harry tells him, scrolling through his contacts until he finds Niall's information. "We work together."

He passes the phone to Louis, not yet ready to personally reach out to anyone just yet, not even his best friend.

"Have you heard from him yet?" Louis asks.

"I think he left a voicemail," Harry says. There's a bunch of new ones on there that he hasn't listened to, Niall's included.

"Mind if I invite him?"

"Go ahead," Harry shrugs. It's been just the two of them until this point, the two closest people to the boy stuck back in the hospital, and while they share that, their love for Travis, their bone-deep concern, they've really only just met. Harry barely knows Louis. They need other people, people they know they can rely on. There's only so much comfort Harry can provide at the moment, and he's sure it goes both ways.

He goes to get them another round while Louis makes the call. When he comes back, Louis pushes his phone across the table and accepts the fresh pint.

"Niall seems nice," he says.

Harry nods. "Niall is nice."

"I think he's worried about you."

"Isn't everyone?" Harry asks, sipping a mouthful of foam from the top of his glass. He peers up from the table and meets Louis' eyes, sees his forehead furrowed with deep concern. He knows he's right.

"Maybe you should respond to some of those messages," Louis suggests quietly, staring down at the plate of chips between them like he's afraid of how Harry might react to the suggestion. "I mean, not, like, all of them," he eases up. "Just the ones from your closest friends and family. So they know you're okay."

That sounds just about like the last thing Harry wants to do. Talking to Niall is one thing. Having the same conversation with everyone else - his coworkers, his cousins, the few people from his home town that he's still friends with - there's no telling how that would go. There's only so many times he can rehash the story, explain Travis' situation, insist that he's _fine_ and doesn't need their help before it starts to leave him raw and cut open again.

"What about you?" he asks, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Have you spoken to your friends yet?"

"A few of them," Louis admits. "Some of my Chicago mates were asking if I got here alright. I told them how yesterday went."

"But they don't know Travis," Harry points out. "Isn't that easier? Talking about it with people who aren't involved?"

"Not necessarily," Louis shrugs. "My flatmate started crying. Another friend was asking all sorts of medical questions. The guy I'm kind of seeing immediately started looking for plane tickets to fly out here. It's a mess with everyone, no matter who they are."

"Great," Harry nods, "now I _really_ want to call people back."

Louis steals a chip from the basket in the center of the table. "You get used to it after a few times," he says. "And you don't have to call. I've just been texting all of them."

Harry thinks he could be okay with that, a generic message that just says the basics. He could just let everyone know that he's not completely alone, that Louis is with him for the time being, that he'll be alright. He could try that.

"Is your boyfriend really flying out here?" he asks while Louis picks at a few more chips.

Louis lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. "He's definitely not my boyfriend," he corrects. "And no, Adrian is not coming to London. He's staying far away where I can't see him or be near him or get too attached."

"Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?" Harry asks, the corner of his mouth twitching up as the color in Louis' cheeks rises. "What's wrong with boyfriends?"

"I'm moving back here in a month," Louis reminds him. "Long distance is fine for friendships, but not so great for relationships. Besides, he's hardly boyfriend material."

"He's willing to fly out here for you."

"He just wants to see London," Louis tells him. "He asks me about it all the time. What's it like? Where's the best nightlife? How does the pound compare to the dollar? Sometimes I think he's only sleeping with me for the accent."

"It is a nice accent," Harry allows. "I have no complaints."

"Alright, posh boy," Louis says, nudging Harry's shoe under the table. "We both know you're only into it because of Travis."

"Well," Harry shrugs, "he does say nice things with it."

"Yeah?" Louis laughs as he leans back into the corner of the booth. "Tell me about boyfriend Travis. What's he like? What's, like, the most boyfriend-y thing he's done?"

Harry draws a line through the condensation on his glass, small smile tugging at his lips. "What do you mean?" he asks. "Like, when he pays for dinner? When he opens the car door for me?"

"No, not like that," Louis shakes his head, pulling a face. "That's normal boyfriend behavior. I mean like something special, like he lit a bunch of candles and cooked you a three course meal. Give me the embarrassing details."

"Alright," Harry nods, trying to wrack his brain for something on the spot. "He's not the best cook, so I've never come home to any three-course meals." Not unless salad, pasta, and chocolate covered strawberries counts as a three-course meal, and Harry's pretty sure it doesn't. "He, um. I don't know. He does lots of sweet things."

Louis frowns. "But he's never surprised you with anything?"

"With like, my favorite ice cream," Harry says and wraps both hands around his glass. "He's brought flowers home for me. When it rains, he picks me up from the restaurant so I don't have to walk."

"But no grand gestures? No offers to fly halfway around the world for you?"

"Not yet," Harry says quietly, thumbing away at all of the remaining condensation on his glass. He glances up at Louis, shrugs."We're not really like that. I mean, I know Travis loves me. He waits up for me when I come home late from work. He's a good person. That's all I really need."

Louis takes a long sip from his beer, nods as he swallows. "Fair enough," he says with a small, apologetic smile. "I wasn't trying to put him down or anything. I just thought you'd have some soppy stories I could embarrass him with."

"Oh," Harry says. "Yeah, he's not a terribly soppy person."

He's just... he's Travis. He's binge-watching Netflix, he's going for walks around the park, he's sex, lots of sex, he's bad memes in text messages, budgeting for the next month's rent, he's attempting to cook breakfast together when they're both hungover. He's enough. He's always been enough.

"Tell me about Adrian," Harry says, doing his best to change the subject. "How'd you meet him?"

Louis licks the bit of foam from his top lip and gives a firm shake of his head. "We are not talking about Adrian."

"Why not?" Harry dares to ask.

But Louis is saved from answering as his phone buzzes to life the table. Harry peers over their drinks to see Liam's name on the screen, then he picks his head up and sees Liam step in through the door, Niall close behind him.

"Does Liam know about Adrian?"

"No," Louis snorts. "Liam definitely does _not_ know about Adrian. And we're going to keep it that way."

"Fine," Harry scowls, giving his friends an awkward wave as they make their way over.

He braces himself for the mood to drop, for this brief wave of calm to disperse around the presence of other people, and it does, for a moment, when Liam pulls each of them into a warm hug, softer and more tender, more careful than usual, when Niall greets Louis as if they've known each other for years, calling him the best-friend-in-law, but it doesn't make Harry cry, even as it pulls at his heartstrings.

"Hey, buddy," Niall says with a sad, little smile as he's left standing before Harry. "You hanging in there alright?"

"Been better," Harry shrugs before he's pulled into a much deeper embrace. Niall's arms wrap him up and hold him close, and all Harry can do is drop his chin onto his familiar shoulder and let himself be held together.

"You two catch up," Louis says as he shoos Liam out of their booth, already fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.

He nudges at Liam's shoulder, pushing him towards the door, only turning to give Harry a reassuring thumbs-up as he goes.

"He seems alright," Niall notes as he falls into the booth and pats the empty space next to him. "Are you two getting along?"

Harry sits down and shrugs. "Yeah. He's good. I like him."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, it's only his second day," Harry allows, "but we're getting along. He's kind of just been looking after me."

"And you're looking after him?" Niall checks.

"I'm trying," Harry says, even though he knows it's mostly been a one-way street. "He doesn't get all emotional the way I do."

"Has he cried?"

"Just last night," Harry tells him. "Alone, after we got home, but we ate pizza together and he seemed alright after that. I reckon he's just better at hiding it."

"Maybe he's in denial," Niall offers, stealing a sip from Harry's nearly empty glass. "Maybe he's just focusing on you for now instead of accepting what's happened."

"Maybe," Harry allows. "But he's a nurse. He's got six younger siblings. He's good at holding things in. I think he just doesn't want to dump all of his emotions on me."

He tips the empty glass in the direction of the front window where he can see Liam standing with a protective arm around Louis' shoulders, a gentle thumb rubbing at the back of his neck. Louis looks tired, his head bent, shoulders slumped, not from the jetlag or from a night spent sleeping on the floor, but tired from having his best mate put in the hospital.

"Is that why he invited me?" Niall asks, tearing his eyes away from the window to grab the beer menu from the table. "So he can have a break from babysitting you?"

 _"Hey,"_ Harry scowls, giving him a gentle shove. "He's not my babysitter. It's goes both ways."

"Well I'm here for whatever you need," Niall says. "If you want to have another cry, go ahead. If you just want to talk about it, I'll listen. If you don't want to talk about it at all, that's fine with me too. How many beers have you had?"

"Erm," Harry starts counting on his fingers. "Three."

"Okay," Niall says, scanning the selection above the bar. "I need to catch up."

"What I want," Harry says interrupting his decision making, "is for Trav to wake up and come back home with me. But I know- I know the chances of that happening tonight are just about zero. So."

"So?"

"So, I just want a normal night out," Harry says with a definitive nod. "I want you to make me feel like I might be alright for a few hours, because the thought of having to go back home and sleep alone tonight is kind of scaring the shit out of me."

"Alright," Niall says, setting the menu back against the wall. "I can help with that."

"I know," Harry says. _"That's_ why I let Louis call you."

"You mean it wasn't because you missed me?"

"I did miss you," Harry insists, bumping their knees together.

"The restaurant wasn't the same without you last night," Niall says because Harry obviously had to call in sick. He's taken the rest of the week off as well. "You should have seen the mess Abby made. It was horrendous. Worst spill I've ever seen."

"Did you take any photos?"

"'Course I did," Niall says as he pulls out his phone.

He scrolls through his camera roll until he comes across the photo he's looking for: an entire table's worth of food overturned on the floor of the kitchen, their coworker Abby covered in sauce and looking murderous. And let it be known that Harry is a pretty easy-going person. It's rare that he finds someone awful enough to waste his energy disliking, but Abby... Abby deserves this. This is karma paying her back for every bullshit thing she's ever pulled on the other waitstaff. This is gold.

"Amazing," Harry exhales, shaking his head. "Send me this so I can have a good laugh the next time someone reminds me my boyfriend's in a coma."

"A bit dark, isn't that?"

"Just send it to me, Niall," Harry insists, past caring.

It goes like that for the rest of the evening, until the sky has darkened and the street lamps have turned on, until they've eaten their share of salty pub food and let the buzz of cold beer spread out underneath their skin. Breathing starts to come easier, each heartbeat starts to hurt a little less, the weight of Harry's phone in his pocket gets lighter and lighter to bear. It doesn't ring, no one calls looking for him, no news is better than bad news, and that's what Harry keeps telling himself in order to stay afloat.

"I think he'd like that we're doing this," Liam says at the end of the night, slouched against the back wall of the booth with Louis tucked against his side, everyone digging through their wallets to split the bill.

"Who?" Louis asks, tilting his head to glance back at him. "Travis?"

"Yeah," Liam nods. "I think he'd love it, all of us getting together for a night, not letting something as fucked up as this keep us down. He'd like that."

Louis sets a handful of cash in the center of the table and shakes his head. "He wouldn't."

"You don't think so?"

"No way," Louis snorts, and Harry has to agree with him. "When he wakes up and you tell him we spent his second night in a coma at the fucking pub instead of staring at him through a window, he's going to kick you straight in the nuts."

Niall gives a tired laugh and adds his own share of bills to the growing pile. "That sounds about right."

"You don't think he'd be alright with this?" Liam asks, forehead creasing.

"Maybe with Harry," Louis says, catching Harry's eye across the table. "He'd get a free pass because he's the _boyfriend_ and he's allowed to be sad and drunk."

"M'not that drunk." Harry shakes his head.

"But you're still the boyfriend," Louis says, "and I'm still right."

He is.

"I'll tell him we spent the entire day by his bedside," Harry promises. "And if it makes you feel better, we can sit with him all day tomorrow to make up for it."

He digs through the cracks in his wallet, trying to come up with enough cash to cover his total for the night, knowing it's going to be tight. He hasn't been to work in two nights and he's not going back for another few days, won't get any tip money or cash to spare until then. Last he checked, his bank account had enough to cover the rent due in a week, but he's still not thrilled about having to cover it all on his own.

That hole in his chest starts to itch. He's tried not to worry too much about the financial impact of everything up until this point. Without Travis' meager but steady income to help offset the cost of their flat, with impending trips back and forth to the hospital, with less and less time to work at the restaurant, it's not going to be fun. He's going to have to start being more careful.

"This should cover it," he says quietly, passing Niall almost everything in his wallet. He catches Louis' eyes on his hands as he gives it all up, and it's only then that he notices how they're shaking again. The buzz he's been feeling all evening twists itself around in his stomach, starts trickling into an acid drip, like an hourglass counting down the minutes until he starts to feel like shit again.

The night had been an escape. Harry just needs it to stay that way for a little while longer, until he's home, until he's alone, until he's fallen asleep in his proper bed.

He's a little unsteady on his feet as he shuffles out of the booth after they pay off their bill and start to say his goodbyes. It takes him a few tries to get his arms back in his coat, and he's indeed drunk, not too drunk, but drunk enough and exhausted enough that he doesn't throw Niall off when Niall helps him button up and make his way out of the pub.

"You'll be alright," he tells Harry as they wait for their rides outside. "Travis will be alright. Everything'll be alright."

Harry doesn't say anything. He's not going to argue. He doesn't want to get into it, doesn't want to go on about it.

He just gives Niall another long hug, does the same with Liam, falls into the back of a cab with Louis, and watches the street lamps flicker all along the road for the entire drive back to the flat.

"Want to watch telly for a bit?" Louis asks once they're home and inside.

Harry takes a slow breath, eyes fluttering over to the closed door on the other side of the living room.

"I think I'm just going to go to bed," he says. He's been surrounded by people and distractions for the past two days. Now, he's ready to be alone.

The bedroom is dark and cold when he slips inside. He doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't want to see all of Travis' things laid out, left on the bedside table, on the floor, doesn't even take the time to make their bed. He just slips out of his skinnies, tugs the sleeves of Travis' jumper down past his hands, and crawls under the duvet. It still smells like Travis. The entire bed does. He inhales deeply, shuts his eyes, begs for sleep to take him.

\---

The next morning brings with it a phone call from the hospital. The after-affects from the surgery have finally been reduced to a stable and safe amount. They're moving Travis. They're taking him off the ventilator. He'll be breathing on his own from here on out. He'll be allowed visitors.

It doesn't even matter what a horrendous night's sleep Harry'd gotten. It doesn't matter that he'd tossed and turned, that he'd shed a few drunken tears into Travis' pillow before passing out, that he'd woken up in a sluggish daze and, just for a moment, forgot what had happened. He gets the phone call as he's staring at the walls, trying to convince himself to get up and get out of bed. He gets the first shred of good news since the accident, and that's all he needs to keep going.

\---

The walk to Travis' room is short and sour. Each step Harry takes feels too quick, too easy, like the ground is gliding beneath his feet, retracting, pulling him to where he needs to be as his heart works harder and harder to keep up. He needs to do this. He needs to see Travis, needs to touch him, feel his heartbeat, feel the warmth still there beneath his skin, needs it all just to help himself breathe better. But the thought of seeing Travis up close in that bed, hooked up to a dozen machines, fighting for his life and the chance to live it again... it's got Harry trembling from his fingertips right down to his toes as he stands just outside of room 417.

It's just Travis. It's just his boyfriend on the other side, the same boy who teases him for his bad jokes and cooks him cheese toasties, who likes to kiss the backs of his knees and always lets him steal the covers at night. It's the same boy who caught Harry trying to sneak a photo of him through the cafe window three years ago, who hasn't left him alone since.

It's Travis, Harry's Travis, and there's nothing to be afraid of.

That still doesn't stop his breath from catching, his legs from locking, his heart from completely stuttering when he finally finds the courage to take the first step inside.

Louis follows behind. He doesn't say anything, but he nods at the empty chair beside the bed for Harry to take. Harry's thankful, in that moment, that there's someone else in the room with him, that someone is there to make him take the next step, and the next, and the next.

He sits down unsteadily, drinks in the sight of Travis with all of his tubes and wires and bandages, and he just listens, just for a moment, to the steady beep of the heart monitor that tells him that there's still a pulse in those dark, purple veins.

"Fuck, Trav," he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. "What have you done to yourself?"

"You want a minute alone?" Louis asks. He's still standing behind the other chair.

"Please," Harry murmurs before he really knows what he's agreeing to. He's not even sure what he's supposed to do in a room with someone who can't hear him, who can't talk back, who doesn't even know that he's got a visitor. How is being alone with Travis supposed to help either of them?

"You'll be fine," Louis assures him, squeezing Harry's shoulder. "His doctors said you can touch him, hold his hand if you want. Just be gentle and mind all the hardware."

"Is it weird if I talk to him?" Harry asks.

"No," Louis says. "It's not weird at all. Just think of it like leaving a voicemail, except for once in his life, he's got no choice but to sit there and listen." He looks at Travis, eyes going soft and sad around the edges. "You should talk to him."

And with that, Louis slips back into the corridor, heading back to the waiting area where Travis' parents are supposed to be soon. Harry has so much he wants to say, and yet, now that he's here, now that he's finally alone with his boyfriend again, he doesn't even know where or how to start.

"Hey, Trav," he tries, inching closer to the side of the bed, hands tucked firmly beneath his thighs. From this close, he can see Travis' chest rising, can hear each of his quiet breaths. His heart swells."Shit," he ends up swearing again. "Shit, you're breathing. Do you know how fucking good that sounds?"

All he knows is that breathing means he isn't brain dead, isn't completely dependent on life-supprt. There's still hope. There's always going to be that hope.

"You're a proper mess, babe," Harry tells him, eyeing the two-day's worth of stubble gracing Travis' jaw, the bandages around his head, his hair sticking this way and that.

He reaches out a tentative hand to brush one of the longer strands off Travis' forehead. Travis hadn't even had the chance to style it before leaving for the airport. They'd kind of just rolled out of bed and jumped in the car.

"I met your Louis," Harry says. "He, um. He's good. I like him. Not that you need my approval. I mean, he was here first, wasn't he? And your parents. I met them, too. They had no idea who I was, so, like. Thanks for that."

He's not going to pretend it didn't hurt, seeing the blank looks on both of their faces the first time he introduced himself. He'd almost forgotten how upset it had made him.

"I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to say to you," he admits with a sad shrug. "I guess that's fitting, since I'd probably be giving you the silent treatment if you were awake. You'd, um. You'd have slept on the couch the other night, that's for sure."

He runs a gentle finger up the back of Travis' forearm. The familiar goosebumps don't rise, the hairs along his skin don't prick up, he doesn't even twitch.

"This is the part where you tell me I'm being ridiculous," he whispers, feeling his throat start to close up. "This is the part where you make up some bullshit excuse and tell me off, and then I go and kick you out of the bedroom anyway."

He inhales a ragged lungful, tries to let it out slowly.

"You've got to wake up," he breathes, taking Travis' lifeless hand and slotting their fingers together. "Trav, baby, you can't leave me here like this."

He brings Travis' hand to his quivering lips, tubes and wires stuck out of his arm in every which direction, and kisses the back of it. His lips press against the cold skin, and there's nothing there. He drags them up, rough and chapped, cracked from biting and picking at them for the past two days, and there's just nothing. It's just limp fingers and knuckles and thin veins and lifeless nerves. For the first time since Harry's known him, Travis doesn't react to one of his kisses. He can't move. He can't wiggle his fingers, he can't blush, he can't open his eyes and call Harry a sap, can't tell him to suck it up, take a deep breath, can't tell him not to start crying.

So Harry tries his best, and when his best isn't enough, he shuts his eyes and inhales sharply, and just holds Travis' hand to his parted lips as he crumbles apart, because he swears if he lets go, he'll drop straight through the ground and he'll never make it back up.

And that's how Louis finds him, tears dripping down his and Travis' interlaced fingers, heart cracked in two. He crosses the room and drops into the seat beside him, and they stay like that, for as long as they can until the doctors come back to check up on him.

\---

They don't see Travis' parents before they go home that night, nor do they see them the entirety of the next day. They must visit some time in the week though, because Harry brings Travis his stuffed lion from home and a bouquet full of fresh flowers, and the next time they go back, there's a balloon tied to the vase and a get well card signed by Mum and Dad. It's just weird. All of it is weird.

"I doubt they'll be here much longer," Louis says when Harry asks him about them one night over a homemade spaghetti dinner. "It's not like they've ever spared a moment of their lives for Travis before."

He can't be serious.

"But he's their son," Harry says, twirling his pasta around his fork, trying to keep his voice steady. "Don't they care at all?"

"In some twisted way, I'm sure they do," Louis shrugs. "Just not enough to put their lives on hold for him for this long."

Harry doesn't get it. He knows Travis hasn't gotten along with his parents, but this? This is absurd.

"If I were in the hospital," he says, elbows digging into the kitchen table, "you'd have to throw a lasso around my mother and drag her out of there every night or else she'd never leave my bed. The only reason she hasn't come down to check on me yet is because I begged her not to."

"Is your mum my mum?" Louis asks, amused.

"I'm serious, Lou."

"I know you are, you're practically steaming out of your ears."

"How did they even get to this point?" Harry has to ask. "I can't imagine ever having a relationship with my parents like that."

Louis just sighs, hunching forward and dangling his fork above one of his meatballs.

"There was never just one moment," he says, pushing it around his plate before meeting Harry's eyes. "I mean, there was eventually, sort of, but it was really just twenty-eight years of bad parenting, Harry. A lifetime of never making Travis the priority. When he finished school, he didn't want to deal with it anymore. He didn't have to. So he stopped talking to them."

"And you're not going to tell me what that moment was?" Harry asks, because god knows Travis had never tried to.

"It's not my story to tell," is all Louis says.

Harry bites his tongue and doesn't push it. It'll probably just upset him more anyway. Just knowing there's a story at all, a story Travis had never felt comfortable telling him, is enough to throw him off.

But aside from that, the visiting helps, the flowers help, the stuffed lion makes it easier to go home every night when Harry imagines the fluffy thing sitting at Travis' bedside and keeping him company. It's a childish hope, a silly hope, but it helps. If Travis is going to be in that room for a long while, the least Harry can do is make it feel a little less dreary in there, a little more homey.

Louis doesn't tease him for it. In fact, Harry finds him kneeling on the living room floor one morning, surrounded by clothespins and lengths of striped ribbons, a messy pile of photographs spread around his knees.

"What are you doing?" he asks, shuffling into the room in one of Travis' hoodies and a pair of joggers.

"I'm trying to decide which photos we should hang in Travis' room," Louis says. "He needs pictures of his friends on the walls. Pictures of you. People he loves."

Harry drops quietly onto the couch behind him, pushing Louis' blankets and pillow to one end and folding his legs up on the cushions.

"Where did you get all of these?" he asks, staring down at the familiar images, his own face smiling back in a lot of them. "When did you print them?"

"Stole a bunch from Instagram," Louis shrugs. "Had them printed at the shop around the corner just this morning."

"But it's not even ten o'clock."

"And some of us are still running on fucked up jetlag schedules," Louis reminds him. "I keep waking up at the crack of dawn. It's like as soon as the sun starts peeking through those curtains, my head thinks it's time to get moving."

"You should buy one of those sleep masks," Harry suggests, rubbing at his eyes. "Or we can blindfold you."

"Yeah," Louis laughs, the sound of it soft in the morning air. "Great plan."

"Can I help you?" Harry asks. He nods down at the pile of photos. There has to be at least thirty of them, each of them taken over the past few years, either by Travis or himself, at parties, on holidays, some with coworkers, with groups of friends, some just Harry, taken in private moments shared between him and his boyfriend. There's no way they'll be able to hang all of them in Travis' hospital room.

Louis pats the space beside him and sweeps the photos to the middle. "You're the photographer here," he says. "I'm sure you have the eye for this collection."

"S'not quite my area," Harry admits as he slinks off the couch and onto the floor. "But we can pretend I'm the expert."

"You mean you didn't study professional collaging in uni?"

Harry shakes his head with a small smile. "Sadly, no."

"Are any of these yours?" Louis asks, pointing to the framed photos on the far wall. "They're really good."

"Those are from Ikea."

"Are they?" Louis squints.

"Yeah," Harry chuckles. "I don't have any of my own stuff hanging up."

His photos are all sitting in his portfolio, on his website, meticulously organized and edited, waiting for someone to call or email, to show some interest. It's been months since his last freelance job, months of sending out his CV, setting up free shoots, trying new techniques and experimenting with his style. No one's contacted him with any offers in so long, he kind of doesn't want to look at his own photos anymore, not unless he has to. Hanging them on his walls would only frustrate him even further.

"Can you show me some of your work?" Louis asks. "Not now, but like, when you're up for it. I know Travis is always going on about it."

"Is he?" Harry asks surprised.

He knows how Travis feels about him and his photography. He's heard the suggestions too many times, Travis stumbling upon job advertisements for family portrait photographers, for camera repair assistants, for shitty website stock photographers, anything to get Harry out of his restaurant job. Harry doesn't want any of that. He didn't study photography for four years in uni for that. The restaurant helps cover enough of his bills, his rent, the phone, the cable - until he starts getting the freelance offers he wants, he's not going to settle for anything lower.

He's sure Travis has complained about it to his mates on multiple occasions. He's sure Louis' heard it all before.

"Doesn't shut up about it, actually," Louis says. "He's your biggest fan."

It's not what Harry had expected him to say.

"It doesn't really feel like that most days," he tells the ground as he picks up a stack of photos to start sorting through.

"No?"

"Not really," Harry shrugs.

Lately, it feels like Travis is only concerned with how Harry might fit a new photo into his portfolio. He never takes the time to just compliment the work and move on. It's always about finding a _real_ job.

And it's not like Harry's trying to pick apart their relationship or anything. It's just the truth. He knows Travis is looking out for him, just trying to help, that he worries when photoshoots fall through, when things don't work out. He just wants the best for Harry, but sometimes he seems to forget who the real photographer in their relationship is and who went to school to study accounting _._

"He's... not the best with words," Louis says as he cuts off a length of ribbon.

"That's an understatement," Harry sighs and places a photo of himself and Travis in the pile to keep.

"That's a nice one," Louis remarks absently. "You both look really happy."

"We were," Harry nods with a small smile. "We'd just been given a free box of donuts."

"Sick," Louis laughs. "But I mean together. You look happy together."

And they were. Despite the little troubles, the struggles, despite whatever areas of communication they had been lacking in, they were happy. And when everything else feels like it's falling apart, when it takes Harry an hour to get out of bed in the morning, when kissing Travis' forehead goodbye every time he leaves the hospital starts to hurt too much, he has to remember that.

They were happy, he was happy, and he knows it's already been a few days and the longer this goes on, the less likely a full recovery is going to be, but there's still that chance that he could be happy again. That Travis could be happy again.

"Oh, look," Louis says, catching Harry's thoughts before they drift too far as he flips to the next photo. "Here's one from Travis' trip to Chicago. Don't we look cute."

They do, arms linked as they walk down the snowy Chicago streets.

"Put that next to this one," Harry says, starting to arrange the photos in order. He grabs another. "And then this one."

"I knew you'd be good at this," Louis teases, giving Harry's elbow a nudge.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Not sure you can be bad at it, but thanks."

They continue to go through each photo one by one until their stomachs start rumbling for breakfast, until Harry gets up and makes them each a cup of coffee, until they've run out of clothespins and filled all of the ribbons, until all they're left with are empty mugs and the vivid memories laid out on the floor before them.

It's not the worst morning Harry's had this week. Everything helps. The flowers help, the stuffed lion, the photos, actually getting to sit there and be with Travis - they all help. But having someone like Louis who understands almost completely what he's going through - that seems to help the most. Having Louis helps the most.

\---

He goes back to work at the one week mark.

His mum gives him a hard time about it, threatens buy a train ticket to come down and put him on house arrest. His boss calls him twice the morning of to make sure he's really, truly ready. Niall tries - and fails - to hold back his enthusiasm. And even Abby sends him a quick text to welcome him back. She's not on the schedule for the afternoon. That's fine with Harry.

Louis doesn't say much.

"You alright?" Harry asks him as he does up the buttons on his black shirt, stopping halfway across the living room, the television off.

Louis finishes reading the text he's been frowning at since before Harry first entered the room, and sets his phone face-down on the couch.

"I'm alright," he says absently. "Are you?"

"Bit nervous," Harry admits. His stomach's been doing all sorts of backflips and somersaults since the night before, and he's been fidgeting non-stop all morning to the point where Travis' nurse had to come in and scold him for drumming his fingers all along Travis' arm. "Everyone's going to want to talk about Trav."

"And you don't," Louis states. It's not a question.

"He's all I've been thinking about for the past week," Harry explains. "I need work to be like..."

"Like a getaway," Louis supplies with a small nod. "Someplace where you don't have to worry about him."

"Yeah," Harry exhales. "Exactly."

It's not that he doesn't want to think about him. It's just that he's starting to miss him worse and worse each day, and it's draining, absolutely draining having to hold his heart together with his own bare hands every hour of his new life.

It's been a week. Travis has been in the hospital for a week. Seven days without hearing his voice. Seven days without his touch, his kisses, that goofy smile he saves for whenever Harry's feeling down. Seven days without the boy he loves. He'd give up anything to have Travis there with him, to wake up seven mornings ago and stop him from getting in that car, to be able to tell him, one last time, how much he loves him.

But he's made it through seven days. He's survived the first week, possibly the worst week, and it's not getting any easier. It won't get easier. He just needs to give himself some distractions.

"I have my first job interview in two hours," Louis says then, which. That's news. That distracts him.

"You _what?"_

Harry blinks at Louis, eyes going wide, then narrowing in confusion. An interview? In two hours? How is it they've gotten so close to the damn thing without yet discussing it?

Louis just sinks further down the couch, letting out a quiet groan as his hands move up to tangle in his hair.

"I fucking hate interviews," he says, staring at the ceiling. "God help me, Harold, I haven't had to do one of these in four years, and I am _bricking it."_

"You'll be fine," Harry assures him, tucking his shirt into the back of his trousers and ignoring the awful nickname.

"I'm going to need more than that."

"I'm leaving for work in ten minutes."

"Harry."

"Alright," Harry tries again with a tired sigh as he buttons the cuffs of his sleeves. "You're a good nurse," he says, glancing up from his wrists. "I can tell, because you've been looking after me since you got here and you barely know me. You're dedicated and kind, and I know you probably care a lot for your patients, so I'm telling you you're a good nurse. You're going to be fine."

"The person interviewing me doesn't know all that," Louis points out. "But thanks, you're more help than Adrian was, that's for sure."

"Was that him you were texting all day?"

"No," Louis says.

Harry fixes him a look.

"Yes," Louis sighs, "and he's been completely useless. I need my best mate back, Harry. I have no one to text my bullshit to anymore."

"You can text me," Harry offers. It's not like he has Travis to text anymore either. He'd tried sending a meme to Liam the other day and all he'd gotten in return was a voicemail checking in on him, making sure he hadn't gone off the deep end just yet. It's not quite the same.

Louis sighs, small and soft. "Or I can just tell you in person."

"True," Harry concedes.

"I don't want to go to my interview."

"Sucks for you, then," Harry says. He leaves it at that.

\---

Six hours later, he's punching his time-card out at the back of the restaurant kitchen, muscles tight and aching, his head pounding from all of the effort he'd put in to keeping a smile on his face all afternoon.

"I think Travis' mum is here."

"What?" Harry exhales, nearly dropping his time-card behind his boss's desk. He blinks at Niall, bewildered.

"Waiting in the front," Niall clarifies as sets his tray of empty plates and glasses on the nearest surface and wipes his hands on his trousers. "Tall. Dark eyes. Travis' hair. Holding onto her bag like she's afraid someone might try to snatch it straight out of her boney fingers."

Harry opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. "That's not helpful. You really think it's her?"

"I don't know," Niall says. "But she definitely could have birthed our Trav and she keeps looking around like she's trying to find someone."

"Show me," Harry says.

And sure enough, waiting for him at the front of the restaurant, alone, timid, and looking five seconds away from bolting back out of there, is Travis' mum.

Harry almost falls back through the kitchen doors in an effort to avoid confronting the embarrassment of their first encounter, but then he freezes. His stomach drops. Panic sets in.

"The hospital would have called," he says, hiding behind one of the restaurant's decorative pillars. "They would have called, right? If something had changed?"

His phone's been in his pocket the entire shift, silent and unmoving. His boss had let him keep it on him given the circumstances, and it had helped, knowing someone could still reach him in case of an emergency, in case Travis woke up, in case he-

"Just go talk to her," Niall says, giving him a little push between the shoulder blades. "I'm sure everything's fine. She doesn't look too distraught."

"But she does look a little distraught," Harry notes, watching her scan the restaurant once more.

Niall just shakes his head. "Go."

So Harry does, and as soon as he's standing in front of Mrs. Lowell, awkwardly clearing his throat and trying to decide if he's supposed to go in for a handshake or a hug or just give a small wave, he remembers what a fool he'd made of himself when they'd met, how he'd just stormed out of the hospital, embarrassed, annoyed, hurt.

She stares back at him like she remembers all of that as well, like she might be embarrassed about it too.

"Hi," she says, and there's a quiet intake of breath after to make Harry think she's about to say more, until she doesn't. Until she just closes her mouth again.

"Is everything alright?" Harry has to ask. "Travis? Is he okay?"

He's still not sure what other reason she might have for being there.

"He's... he's fine," Donna says, laying his fears to rest. "He's the same. Nothing's changed, I was just with him, but I- I thought I should come see you, Harry. I was hoping we could talk."

"Talk?" Harry repeats, confused. "About what?"

"Greg and I," she starts, glancing around the tiny waiting area, focusing on literally anyone but Harry, "we're thinking about going back to Doncaster. We're thinking about going home."

\---

Harry steps into his flat to find Louis eating McDonalds out of a paper bag.

"I just don't get it," he says, pacing the kitchen after he tells Louis the news, his heart racing hard enough that he's afraid he might send himself into cardiac arrest.

Louis peers up from his chicken tenders and wipes his mouth with the edge of his thumb. "Honestly?"

"I mean, I know- fuck, I know it's been a week already," Harry goes on, emotions having already gotten the better of him, "I know he hasn't made any progress, and I know- I fucking _know_ that that's not good, trust me, I've heard what the doctors are saying and I hate it, but how can they just leave? How can they go home and leave their fucking son alone in a coma?"

"He's not alone," Louis comments, resting his elbows on the table. "You're here. I'm here."

"You're leaving in less than a month," Harry scoffs.

"But I'm coming back."

Harry doesn't care. "He's not getting any better."

"You don't know that," Louis says, eyes following him across the room. He's still dressed in a dark blue button-up from his interview, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. "Have the doctors told you that? Have the nurses said anything?"

"No," Harry allows, but he knows. He just knows.

"Then stop acting like he's dying."

"But he is, isn't he?"

Every day Travis spends in that bed is another day he hasn't woken up. Every hour that goes by is an hour spent wasting away, his body relying on machines, forgetting how to function on its own. The longer he stays asleep, the less likely it is he'll ever open his eyes again. Harry knows this. He is aware of this. He's not going to pretend it's anything different.

"Hey," Louis says, raising his voice just a fraction. "We're not doing this. _You_ are not doing this. He's not going anywhere."

"His parents are."

Louis rolls his eyes. "If his parents thought he was dying, do you think they'd be going home in five days?"

Harry shrugs, grabs the back of the empty chair across from Louis and tilts it back. "I don't know," he says, leaning towards the table. "I don't know them."

"Then give it a rest," Louis sighs. He kicks the leg of the chair out, jerking it sideways from Harry's hands just to piss him off, and it does. It pisses him off. "You knew they were shit, and here they are, being shit. It's not like we didn't expect this."

But expecting it and having it genuinely happen are two very different things.

"Why aren't you upset about this?" Harry snaps. "Why doesn't this bother you?" He's so sick of being the only one freaking out over everything - crying every time he goes to see Travis, flipping out over the Lowells - sometimes it seems like Louis doesn't even care _._

"I am upset," Louis says forcefully, leveling Harry a look that almost makes him take a step back. Almost. He keeps his grip tight on the back of the chair, knuckles gone white. "It does bother me," Louis insists. "I'm just tired, Harry. I'm tired, and I'm sad, and I'm sorry for Travis, sorry that it was me he was on his way to pick up from the airport when all of this happened, but I know Travis, and _you_ know Travis, and I don't think he'd care one way or the other if he knew his parents were leaving."

"They're his family," Harry says, shaking his head. "He might not like them, but he'd care. If he knew they were running away from him like this, you can guarantee he'd fucking care."

Louis opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but the look on Harry's face must convince him to keep his opinion to himself because he grabs his bag of chicken tenders and fries, excuses himself from the table, and goes to eat alone in the living room without another word.

And that's the end of that.

\---

"I'm sorry," Harry tells him in the morning.

Louis tears his eyes away from the news playing on the television, the volume on mute, subtitles dancing along the bottom of the screen.

"For what?" he asks, brow furrowing as he pushes his hair out of his face and sits up, blanket slipping off his shoulders and pooling around his waist.

"Last night," Harry says, shuffling into the living room. He takes a tentative seat on the edge of the arm chair, tugs the sleeves of his hoodie down past his fingertips. "I know you care about Travis. I never meant to imply that you didn't."

"Oh," Louis says quietly. "I know."

"Yeah," Harry exhales, shaking his head. "I, um. I just... I think I'm struggling, a bit, to make sense of a lot of things. Like Travis' relationship with his parents. I just don't have the background to know why they're acting the way they are, why he never told them about me. I think I'm realizing just how little he's opened up to me about them, and I feel..." He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I feel like he left me in the dark."

And that scares the shit out of him.

Louis nods but doesn't say anything, and Harry shrinks into the armchair, stomach in the same knots it's been in since the accident. This has always been an issue. He's always _known_ being left in the dark has been an issue. But when Travis had been healthy, when he'd been awake and his parents had been far out of the picture, it had been bearable. Sure, they'd fought about it, had argued and shouted over each other until their throats had gone sore on more occasions than one, but it hadn't been at the constant forefront of Harry's mind.

Now, it is.

Now, Harry doesn't have Travis there to calm him down or tell him to give it a rest.

Now, he's met Travis' parents, and he knows they don't know him, knows they don't really care to, but it's making it all the more glaringly obvious that his boyfriend hardly ever let him in on that part of his life.

"You're his boyfriend," Louis finally says, choosing his words carefully in the quiet of the morning. "I know he loves you. I don't think he was trying to hurt you when he decided to keep you out."

But he did, and this hurts, and Harry doesn't know what he's supposed to do about it.

"Can you... Do you think you could tell me about him?" he asks, holding himself together with his arms wrapped around his middle. "Could you tell me what it was like growing with him?"

"You don't want to wait for him to wake up?" Louis asks, scratching absently at the tattoo on his wrist.

"It's been a week, Lou," Harry says. He doesn't say anything else.

"Alright," Louis sighs after a moment, the truth settling like a brick in the ocean. "I can tell you about it."

\---

He doesn't tell Harry about it, not that day, nor the next, because Travis gets an infection.

He gets an infection and develops a fever, and Harry barely leaves his bedside for two days straight.

\---

"Hey, buddy, you ready to go home?"

He picks his head off of Travis' hospital pillow, hair matted to his forehead, eyes puffy with sleep. Niall's hand falls from his shoulder, and Harry looks down to see someone's taken his phone out of his fingers and placed it on the bed, thrown a blanket over him while he's been out.

"Where's Louis?" he mumbles, sitting up from his hunched-over position, stretching, his spine popping. He glances at Travis, his face still blotchy, a thin layer of sweat still shining along his hairline and running down his neck. His fever hasn't broken yet, but he's been given antibiotics, pumped full of fluids, had half a dozen tests run to make sure his wounds aren't getting worse, that the infection hasn't spread, and Harry has been in a right fucking state through all of it.

"Louis had another job interview, remember?" Niall reminds him.

"I thought he was coming back," Harry says quietly.

He'd left late in the afternoon, already dressed to impress. But it's dark outside now, after sunset, after dinner time, and surely the interview couldn't have lasted that long.

"He texted me, told me to stay here with you and take you home later," Niall explains, grabbing the damp cloth from Travis' bedside table and gently wiping his forehead for him. "I think he was meeting Liam for drinks, said he needed to take his mind off of everything for a bit, give you some space to breathe without him."

"That's... okay," Harry decides, mouth still stale from his nap. That's okay.

He's just not sure how much space he wants, not sure he's ready to be left alone with his thoughts and an empty flat so early on.

"Come on," Niall says, setting the cloth back down. "You'll be alright on your own."

"Okay," Harry says again because he's not exactly sure he will be, not when he's been ten seconds away from either throwing up or crying for the past two days, and he's not sure he _should_ be left alone, but if Niall says he will be, then he'll at least try.

"Okay," Niall nods. He grabs his coat and takes Harry's hand, and doesn't try to let go until they're outside Harry's flat and Harry forces himself to say goodbye.

\---

He's in the bath when Louis comes home.

He's in the bath, bubbles up to his chest, a single candle flickering on the window sill, and his heart lodged permanently in his throat, when Louis comes home from the pub and gently knocks on the bathroom door.

"Harry?" he interrupts the silence. "Harry, are you in there? I need to wee."

"Christ," Harry exhales, low enough that only he can hear it. He sinks further into the tub, his chin almost touching the bubbles and his knees poking out of the water. "Louis, I'm in the bath. Can you hold it?"

Louis seems to think about it for a moment. "Yes," he decides. And then, "No."

"No?"

"Sorry," he apologizes. "I had a few at the pub. I promise I won't look."

Harry sighs to himself and swipes his sopping hair off his forehead, the ends still dripping down his temple. "Fine," he says. There's nothing to see anyway. He's got plenty of bubbles.

"Okay, good," Louis says, and before Harry can prepare himself, cover his bits with his hands _just in case,_ the door swings open and Louis strides inside and over to the toilet, already undoing his flies and reaching into the front of his trousers.

"Jesus, hi," Harry says, turning away at once, the tips of his ears heating up.

"Sorry," Louis says again as he starts doing his business, his back to the tub. "I really couldn't hold it. I didn't even drink that much, but the past few days have been real shit, and I just needed _something_ , you know?"

"I know," Harry mumbles in agreement, staring down at the bubbles. With the one candle going, it's too dark to see anything beneath the water anyway, but that doesn't stop him from being self-conscious.

"Did Niall take you home?" Louis asks, finishing up.

"Yeah," Harry answers. "He thought I could use some time alone."

"You alright?"

Harry shrugs, shoulders creating ripples in the water. "Not really."

"Do you do this a lot?"

"What?"

"Light a candle and run a bubble bath?" Louis flushes the toilet and goes to wash his hands, glassy eyes meeting Harry's in the reflection of the mirror, his tie loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

"When I'm stressed," Harry says quietly. "Usually there's more wine involved and less people asking to use the toilet. Sometimes there's Travis."

"Oh, yeah?" Louis throws a small, knowing smirk at him. "He could fit in there with you?"

Harry pokes his toes out at the other end, blush heating up his cheeks. "We made it work."

"Better than the backseat of a car, I guess."

Harry rolls his eyes, can't believe they're talking about this. "Both are pretty good, actually," he says.

"I wouldn't know," Louis shrugs, drying his hands on a towel. "I've only had the pleasure of the first."

And then, to Harry's immense horror, he sits down outside the opposite end of the tub and leans against the wall.

"How drunk _are_ you?"

Louis lets out a breathy laugh and starts pulling off his dress shoes. "I'm not," he says with a glance at Harry. "I'm buzzed and I don't want to be alone. Just let me enjoy the fact that my best friend isn't dead yet and my interview went well. I genuinely think they liked me."

"Of course they liked you," Harry sighs, ignoring the _yet_. "You're a likable person."

"Am I?"

"I'm letting you interrupt my bath," Harry points out.

"True," Louis nods. "I bet you don't let just anyone see you like this."

Harry snorts, sinks even deeper into the water. "Nope. Usually just the boyfriend."

"I feel honored."

"You should."

"I miss him," Louis says then with a sad, little sigh, his head falling back against the wall and breaking Harry's heart.

"Me too," Harry murmurs. He's not sure he'll ever be able to put into words just how much. It's like there's this void in his chest, a vacuum of sorts, sucking constantly, feeding off of his sadness, trying to rip a hole through him. He hasn't found a way to stop it yet. He's not sure he's ready to try.

"I know he's your boyfriend," Louis goes on as he starts unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves, "but at least you had the past three years with him. I've been living in a completely different country. I haven't seen him since Christmas."

"Doesn't that make it easier?" Harry wonders aloud. "If you've been away for so long, shouldn't it feel the same?"

"Not when he's in the hospital," Louis shakes his head. "And not when I was _this_ close to seeing him again."

He pinches his fingers together, just the narrowest bit of space between them, and Harry gets it. He does. Travis was snatched away from both of them right in front of their eyes, and there's nothing either of them can do to fix it.

"This is so fucked up," Louis says, then. "I don't know how long I can do this."

Harry exhales, not bothering to ask do what? It doesn't matter, does it? He's struggling to do everything these days. Louis must be, too.

"Do you know what Liam asked me at the pub?" Louis continues as he finishes rolling his sleeves up just below his elbows. "He asked what I was planning on doing if Travis never wakes up."

Harry's stomach drops. "Louis," he says. "Don't."

"I didn't answer," Louis tells him, "I didn't want to think about it."

"Then why are you bringing it up?"

"Because he has a point, doesn't he?" Louis asks anyway, despite the knife currently twisting itself through Harry's insides. "Are we supposed to have a plan? Do you think his parents do? What are we supposed to do if he's still like this a year from now? Ten years from now? What if he just doesn't wake up?"

Panic starts to seep into Harry's bloodstream, heating him up from the inside out. He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to think about this. So far, he hasn't even entertained the idea of this.

"I mean, I'm just his friend," Louis goes on. "But you're his boyfriend. You're not married, you're not engaged, there's no 'for better or worse, till death do us part.' You're just his boyfriend."

"I am," Harry agrees, dully.

Nearly three years into their relationship, an engagement hadn't seemed too far-off. He's imagined making this permanent, sealing the deal, starting a family and growing old together. It's been brewing in the back of his mind for a while. But now, it's like the pot's spilled over, nothing but a mess left behind. Now he doesn't know what the future holds.

"What are we supposed to do?" Louis asks.

Chest heavy beneath the water, Harry doesn't answer. There is no answer. He simply doesn't know what he's supposed to do if Travis never gets better. The thought of leaving him like this, abandoning him, moving on, makes his skin burn with guilt, his face grow hot with shame, but the thought of going through this every day for the rest of his life, _feeling_ like this every day from now until forever, makes him want to lie down at the bottom of his tub and let his lungs fill with bathwater, breathe it in until he can't breathe, can't think anymore, makes him want to drown himself until this ache in his heart goes away.

He just can't think about Travis being stuck like this forever, can't think about missing him forever, can't feel like his heart's been cracked wide open forever. He can't do that and he can't think about it. Not now. Not when it hasn't even been two weeks.

"You don't have to answer," Louis says. "I just figured it might be time to start considering the possibilities."

Harry swallows thickly, eyelids fluttering despite not having any tears spilling out for once. He sniffs, lifts a wet hand from the water to rub at the side of his nose as Louis tries to pass him his towel.

"Thanks," he croaks, sitting up and wiping his face dry. He sets the towel on the edge of the tub, hugs his knees to his chest, the tops of them poking out of the bubbles, water dripping off his arms. "I don't want to consider the possibilities," he says, resting his chin on his forearms. "I know he isn't doing well, and I know it's a long-shot that he'll recover from this, but I can't- that doesn't mean I have to figure out what to do just yet."

When the daily hospital visits become too much, when he's not sure he can hold on any longer, when it starts to feel like he's gone longer without Travis than he has with him and the memories he has begin to feel like memories of a ghost, then he'll think about it. Considering the possibilities is a last resort type of move. It's not that he's full of hope, filled to the brim with positivity and drowning in denial - it's that he doesn't have the energy nor the strength to think about what _might_ happen. He's not an advocate of _what-if_ s.

"I picked up a pint of ice cream this morning," Louis tells him when he can't figure out what else to say. "Would you like me to get it?"

"What flavor?" is all Harry asks.

"Chocolate with chunks of fudge, I think," Louis says, already getting back to his feet, black shoes pinched together between his fingers. He wobbles on his way up, has to grasp at the tiled wall for support, but he finds his balance in the end.

Harry had almost forgotten he'd been drinking. He's been rather subdued for someone with a buzz.

"Chocolate is fine," he says, watching Louis pause to let the room settle. "Try not to hurt yourself."

"I think I'm more tired than tipsy," Louis admits, pushing his hair back off his forehead.

Harry knows the feeling.

As soon as Louis' gone, he ducks below the surface, letting the water wash away the sweat from the steam, those remaining pinpricks of tears heating up behind his eyes, the exhaustion from spending two days waiting for Travis' fever to just _fucking break._ He has no idea what the hell he's doing, not with Travis, not with his life, not with letting this boy who's essentially a stranger sit outside the tub and bring him ice cream. He just knows that he doesn't want to be alone right now, despite Niall's suggestion, despite his promise that everything would be okay. Maybe it will be okay, maybe he _can_ do this on his own and he can figure it out, but that doesn't mean he wants to tonight.

He doesn't stay down forever, as much as he might want to. He emerges when the last bit of air leaves his lungs, drops of water rolling off his cheeks, sticking to his eyelashes, making his hair cling to his face as he takes a fresh breath. The air doesn't clear his head. The burn in his lungs doesn't numb the rest of his pain. He towels his face off again and watches the candlelight flicker along the walls until Louis shuffles back in, changed into a threadbare pair of joggers and an old black t-shirt, clutching a pint of ice cream and two spoons.

He passes Harry one and takes up a new spot beside him at the head of the tub, eyes remaining respectfully above the water line as he leans against the edge, only a breath of air separating their shoulders.

"Dig in," he says, holding the container out between them.

He smells like beer and cigarette smoke. When Harry licks the first bite of ice cream off his spoon and lets his head fall sideways onto Louis' shoulder, Louis leaves him there, despite his wet hair. He's tired, he doesn't know what he's doing, but this... this feels alright.

\---

Travis' fever breaks some time in the night.

Harry goes to the hospital just long enough to confirm the news for himself, which is just long enough to bump into Travis' parents and hear straight from their mouths that this is their last day in London, that they're leaving for Doncaster before nightfall.

Louis is with him when it happens. Louis keeps him from lashing out. Louis takes him to a nearby chippy and forces him to sit, relax, eat, and breathe.

And then they go home, and Harry locks himself in his and Travis' bedroom, where he makes Travis' side of the bed for the first time since the accident, folds and hangs all of the clean clothing still sitting in Travis' laundry basket, waters their dying houseplant, and then crawls under the duvet in the middle of the afternoon, and cries himself to sleep.

\---

The next morning, Louis gets his first job offer. He mutes the episode of Friends playing on Travis' tiny hospital television and asks for a week to make a decision, then he thanks the person on the phone for everything, gives Harry a high-five, and leaves the room to go call his mum.

"That must be nice," Harry says, glancing sideways at his boyfriend. His scruff looks absolutely ridiculous today, almost a beard, but not quite, kind of patchy around his chin. "Imagine having the luxury of holding off a job offer because you're not sure it's the one for you."

He's not bitter, he's not annoyed. He's actually quite happy for Louis. He's just not looking forward to going back to his own job in a few hours after several days off.

As expected, Travis doesn't respond.

"Maybe I can take over your job for a bit," Harry throws out there. "I'm good at maths. I can count money."

He can almost imagine Travis rolling his eyes, pulling him against his side with a soft laugh, kissing his forehead and murmuring, _"Nice try, love, but we all know you're shit at maths."_

"I got a B on my GCSE," Harry says. "That has to count for something."

He'd asked the doctors if they thought Travis could hear him. No one had been able to give him a straight answer, but he's pretty sure Travis can't. Louis doesn't think so either, which is kind of comforting, knowing Travis doesn't have to listen to these one-sided conversations all day for however many days on end. He hopes it's just like taking a long nap, blissfully oblivious to the outside world. He hopes Travis won't even know how much time he's missed if he ever wakes up. He hopes he won't know how soon his parents left.

"Maybe I should bring a book to read to you," Harry offers, propping his elbow on the armrest, his head on his hand. "Just in case."

He kicks his foot onto the edge of the bed frame, careful of all the tubes and wires falling to that side. Louis had explained to him what each of them is for, which ones go to where, what's draining from some and being pumped in through the others. Harry avoids looking at them too closely whenever he visits. He doesn't need to see what's coming out of his boyfriend's broken body.

"Sorry about that," Louis apologizes as he comes back into the room minutes later. "Mum kept trying to convince me to come home earlier."

"Earlier, when?" Harry asks.

"This weekend," Louis says, hesitant. "I told her I'd think about it."

Harry nods, eyes drifting back to the television for a moment, the episode cutting to a car advertisement. "Do you want to go?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

"I just..." Louis shrugs, drops into the seat opposite Harry, on the other side of Travis' bed. "I don't think I'm ready to have her going full Mum Mode on me just yet. Like, I think I'm doing alright without her. I'm handling it all well enough. But if I go home and talk to her about everything, if she sits me down and makes me confront all that I'm feeling, I'm a hundred-percent sure I'm just going to have a long cry about it and I won't want to come back."

"That's exactly why I haven't let my mum visit yet," Harry tells him.

"You're close with her?"

"She's one of my best friends," Harry says easily enough. "'S why I can't have her come down here. I'd never let her leave."

Louis lets out a quiet laugh, tired, a little bittersweet. "Are you _sure_ we don't have the same mum?"

"I mean, have we ever seen them in the same room together?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Interesting," Harry notes, sitting up again, his feet still on the edge of Travis' bed. "Do you think you'll end up going?"

"Maybe," Louis allows, which doesn't really hint one way or another.

\---

He decides at the very last minute that he's going. It's Friday night and Harry sees the text sitting on his lockscreen just as he's getting ready to leave the restaurant, an apology for the short notice beneath it.

He doesn't bother responding, just shoves his phone back in his pocket, grabs his jacket from the back of the kitchen, and finds Niall waiting for him outside.

"Everything alright?" Niall asks after taking one look at him.

Harry zips his coat all the way up to his chin. "Why?"

"Is that a 'yes' or a 'no?'"

"That's a 'why are you asking if I'm alright?'" Harry specifies. "Do I not look alright?"

"Bud, you haven't looked alright in two weeks," Niall has no trouble admitting. "I just mean I saw you look at your phone and now you've got this look on your face, so I'm asking if everything is alright."

"Louis just hopped on a train to Doncaster," Harry tells him.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, that explains the look," Niall says, which... Harry's still not even sure what the look is.

All he knows is Louis had been putting off making a concrete decision for the past few days, and now he has, and that means the flat is going to be empty when Harry gets home and for the first night since the accident, he's going to be well and truly by himself.

"Do you think he's getting tired of me?" Harry has to ask. Because he's finding it a little strange that Louis couldn't tell him in person that he'd be going, that he'd waited until Harry had left for work, that he'd only bothered to send a quick couple of texts before ditching town.

"Are you getting tired of him?" Niall counters.

It's not very helpful.

"No," Harry answers as they slowly make their way down the pavement to the nearest tube station. "I like having him around. I mean, I don't really know him all that well, but he's Travis' best friend and I'm Travis' boyfriend, and it's... I don't know. It's just nice, having someone who knows what I'm going through."

"You're saying I'm not supportive enough?"

Harry gives Niall's elbow a little nudge. "Of course you're supportive," he says with a roll of his eyes. "You're just as supportive as Louis. But his priority is Travis and _my_ priority is Travis, and your priority tends to be me."

Niall seems to understand. He gives a small nod, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"You relate to him more," Niall says. "You're in it together."

"At least, I thought we were," Harry says quietly. "He's probably sick of me moping around all the time, crying every chance I get. He came here hoping to spend a month with Trav, and now he's stuck with me for four weeks, going back and forth to the hospital every day. I don't blame him for wanting to get away."

"I think you're over-analyzing it," Niall tells him as they come to a stop at the crosswalk. "He's been by your side since he got here."

"Which is why he needed to leave," Harry reasons. "He only waited until the last minute to tell me so he wouldn't have to deal with me freaking out."

"You're freaking out?"

"A bit, yeah," Harry huffs, kicking at the base of the crosswalk sign. "I haven't spent a night alone in the flat yet. I don't know if I can do it. Like, it sucks being there in the first place, but without Louis, no one's going to be there to distract me."

"You could sleep at mine," Niall suggests.

"Where? Your couch is tiny."

"My bed's not," Niall replies. He hooks his arm through Harry's as the light changes and starts tugging him across the street. "We can spoon. Come on, it'll be good."

Harry snorts. "Good for who?"

"Shut up," Niall sighs. "You're coming home with me. End of story."

Harry would try to fight him on it, if only he didn't actually want to take him up on the offer. He's just not ready for the silence, the emptiness, the loneliness of his and Travis' flat, and they both know it. Maybe Louis knows it too, and maybe that's why he waited so long to tell him.

"Fine," Harry allows as they near the tube station. "But on one condition."

"What's that?" Niall asks.

"I'm the little spoon."

\---

They take turns showering the grime from two six-hour shifts at the restaurant off in Niall's closet-sized bathroom. Harry goes first, changing into a borrowed pair of football shorts and a t-shirt Niall brought home the last time he saw The Eagles play. As soon as Niall starts running the water again, Harry burrows beneath Niall's fluffy white duvet and checks that the volume on his phone is back on in case the hospital calls in the middle of the night. It's routine now - on vibrate in his back pocket at work where it's too loud and bustley to hear a call come through, and the volume up and the phone right next to his ear during the night, loud enough to wake him if need be.

It's as he's getting ready to set his phone down on the bedside table that his screen lights up again, the generic ringtone going off, startling him half out of his skin and sending the phone tumbling from his fingers and clunking to the ground.

He leans over the side of the bed, sees Louis' name across the screen, lets himself relax.

"Hey," he answers after he snatches the phone from the floor and presses it to his ear. It's easier than asking why Louis had suddenly decided to leave, if it had even been a sudden decision at all, if Louis' tired of the company Travis had left him with.

"Hi," is Louis' quiet response. "Are you home?"

"I'm staying with Niall," Harry tells him, rolling onto his back and staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. "Are you?"

"Staying with Niall?"

"No, you prick," Harry huffs. "I mean home. Are you home yet?"

"I got in about an hour ago," Louis says. "I just wanted to make sure you got back from work alright. You hadn't replied to my texts."

"Oh," Harry says, guilt just barely making its way into his stomach. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't see them until after my shift ended."

"You're not upset, are you?"

Harry shuts his eyes, brings a hand up to push his shower-damp hair back onto the pillow. He doesn't want to lie, but he doesn't want to get into it either.

"I'm not upset," he answers after a moment, because he's not. He's just worried that Louis had needed a break from him and could only manage it by tip-toeing past him.

"I'm sorry it was so sudden," Louis apologizes anyway. "I was gonna wait for the end of the month like I'd planned, but then mum called this afternoon and said Lottie was bringing Felicite home for the weekend, and it felt too weird to pass up the opportunity to see them. Are you sure you're alright? You sound a little off."

"I've barely said anything," Harry frowns, scrubbing his hand back down his face.

"I know," Louis agrees. "That's why I'm worried."

Harry sighs. "Sorry. M'just tired. Friday nights at the restaurant are always busy."

"So you're not annoyed that I ditched you for the weekend?"

"It's not your fault I'm too scared to sleep alone in my own flat," Harry answers as the water shuts off on the other side of the wall. "Besides, I figured you'd get sick of me eventually, anyway."

"Is that what you think this is?" Louis asks, and Harry can just picture the offended wrinkle of concern deepening across his forehead. "You think I left to get away from you?"

"I'm kind of a lot to handle at the moment," Harry shrugs, cringing to himself as he shrinks under the duvet. "I'm sure you've noticed."

"You're overthinking it," Louis tells him with a breathy laugh. "I'm home for the first time in nine months and one of the first things I do is sneak out to the back garden to give you a call. If I'm trying to get rid of you, why am I on the phone with you?"

"Why are you in the back garden?"

"I asked first."

"Yeah, but your question was rhetorical," Harry says as the bathroom door unlocks and Niall comes treading in wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Niall raises a questioning eyebrow as he grabs his clothes from atop the dresser, but Harry just waves him off. "Why are you hiding in the garden?" he asks Louis again.

"Because," Louis says with a great sigh.

"Because why?"

"Because my mum keeps trying to get us alone," Louis finally admits, "and I don't want to talk about Travis or how I'm holding up. Maybe tomorrow, I don't know, but I just want tonight to be normal."

"And normal means avoiding your family and phoning me instead?" Harry asks, pulling his phone away from his ear for a second just to check the time. It's almost midnight. "Shouldn't everyone be going to sleep soon anyway?"

"Not my mum. She'll wait all night for me if she has to."

"Then just tell her you don't want to talk about it," Harry advises. "I'm sure she'll understand."

"Harry," Louis nearly whines.

"She's your mum," Harry rolls his eyes. "Talk to her. You don't have to talk about Trav, but at least talk to her."

"Says the boy who won't even let his mum visit him in London," Louis scoffs.

"How can she visit me when she's in Doncaster with you?"

"Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Louis," Harry just laughs quietly before the call ends and he's left staring at Niall's ceiling again with the fading remnants of a smile still stretched across his face. He lowers his phone to his chest, lets it sit atop the duvet as he brings his hand back up to his mouth and slowly runs his thumb across his bottom lip.

"You're ridiculous," Niall interrupts rather smugly as he re-enters the bedroom in a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt from uni.

"Why's that?"

"That was Louis?"

"Yes," Harry frowns, picking his phone from the duvet and setting it back on the bedside table. "Why?"

"If he were really trying to get away from you, do you think he'd have called so soon to check in?"

Harry exhales a long, steady breath. "No," he supposes. "I guess not."

"He likes you," Niall states, as if Harry might need reminding. He does. "I think you two would get along even if you didn't have Travis."

"You think?" Harry asks, a small weight lifting from his chest. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better about what a shitty host I've been?"

Niall shakes his head. "I'm not just saying it."

\---

Harry goes home the next morning just long enough to steal one of Travis' hoodies and find a clean pair of skinnies that aren't so threadbare he's afraid his arse might burst through the seams, and then he goes back to the hospital.

It's weird being there by himself all day. It's weird without Louis, weird that Travis' parents have been gone for a few days now, weird that he hasn't spent this much time alone with his boyfriend since before the accident.

He realizes, as he watches the same advert play on the telly for the third time that morning, that it's terrifyingly quiet when it's just the two of them.

He changes the wilting flowers in Travis' window for some yellow daisies.

He asks one of the nurses to help him shave off the two-day's worth of stubble dusting Travis' chin.

He checks his e-mails, goes through the recently added photography listings, doesn't apply for any of them, can't muster up the willpower to do so.

He pays his bills.

Barely.

There's enough left for the next month of groceries, but he's going to need more hours at the restaurant, more tips, if he wants to scrounge up enough to pay the next rent and the next round of bills. He's just not comfortable dipping into Travis' savings while Travis isn't even living in the flat. And maybe that's weird too. Maybe at this point in their relationship, that should just be a given, something natural, that Travis would want him to be able to afford to live in their home if something were to happen to him, but Harry just can't.

He doesn't want to.

He assumes it's some coping mechanism, that he's just trying to prove he can do this on his own.

At least that's what he tells himself.

Because it's easier than wondering why he isn't okay with taking Travis' money, even though he's fairly certain Travis would want him to.

\---

_Send me a link to your portfolio_

Harry stares at the text from Louis, cold chip held between his fingers stopping halfway to his open mouth.

"What's wrong?" Niall asks, taking the seat across from him at the only table without chairs stacked atop it.

"Nothing," Harry frowns. "'S just Louis."

He drops his chip back into his takeaway container and types out a quick response.

_Why?_

Louis starts typing back immediately.

_Because I want to steal your work and become a world famous photographer. Obviously._

_Yeah, no thanks,_ Harry replies. _Did you talk to your mum last night?_

Niall drags the plate of leftover chips to the center of the table. "Are you still coming out with us?"

And Harry, who doesn't have the money to spend out at the club, who would much rather just go home and go to sleep but still isn't ready to sleep in his flat alone, nods, watches those little dots blink across his screen.

"Are they almost finished in there?" he asks, letting his eyes flick over to the kitchen door where Abby, Pete, and the new dish-washer whose name he keeps forgetting are all still changing back into their street clothes.

"Abby's trying to fix Tim's hair," Niall says with a smirk. "She's worried he'll look too much like he's spent the evening in a kitchen if she doesn't."

"And what about the rest of us?" Harry lifts his arms and signals at his outfit. He hadn't brought a change of clothes. He hadn't even known they were all going to the club until the restaurant doors closed an hour ago.

"Just undo the top three buttons like we all know you want to."

Harry rolls his eyes but his fingers are already reaching for his collar. "And my trousers?" he asks skeptically. "I'm pretty sure I still look like a waiter."

"That's 'cause you are one," Niall says. "Don't worry, H. You look fit."

"I'm not trying to look fit."

"Well, that's shit for you, because you do." He steals another cold chip as Harry's phone buzzes again.

_We talked this morning and I cried like a fucking baby. Turns out I'm not an emotionless arsehole after all. Send me your portfolio. Lottie wants to see it and you promised I could have a look._

Harry sighs. He's never thought of Louis as an emotionless arsehole. He also never promised to show him shit.

Still, he types out the link to his personal website and sends it off, only a little self-conscious of the fact that it's now in Louis' hands and he's not there to gauge his reactions.

"Are you going to be like this all night?" Niall asks.

Harry pockets his phone, tries not to look as tired as he feels. "Like what?"

"Moody, quiet. Texting Louis."

"Probably." He doesn't try to sugar-coat it. The past two weeks are catching up to him and he knows he's been a drag lately.

"Can I try to get you drunk?"

"I'm not drinking."

Niall fixes him a look. "For, like, health? Or because you don't want to spend money."

"Because I'm a broke waiter who can barely afford his rent."

"Oh, good," Niall says with a little clap of his hands. "So, if I buy you half a dozen shots, you'll drink them?"

Harry just stares at him, bottom lip curving into a small frown. "I'm not a charity case."

"It's not charity. It's me wanting you to have a good night out."

"Niall-"

"Shut up," Niall says firmly, but not unkindly. "Just let me do this, Harry. You've been through hell the past two weeks, and I just want you to have fun. We're going to the club and I'm getting you drunk, and we'll dance and you'll be shit-faced, and you're not allowed to put up a fight."

"Fine," Harry says because he knows it's a battle he's already lost and he doesn't have the energy to argue anymore.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he nods with a great sigh as Abby, Pete, and Tim step out from the kitchen, their boss trailing behind, ready to lock up for the night. He takes one look at Tim, at what Abby did to his hair, at how objectively good it looks, and feels the simmering of guilt start to bubble its way to the surface of his stomach. "Niall," he says, tearing his eyes away to gather up his chips and get ready to leave. "Just promise you'll look out for me tonight."

He doesn't need to explain himself. He knows Niall understands. It's not about not trusting himself or anything to do with Tim. It's about not trusting the other handsy strangers in the club who might try to take advantage of him if they realize what a vulnerable state he's in.

"I won't let you out of my sight," Niall promises. "Come on," he says, rising from the table and grabbing his and Harry's coats from the backs of their chairs. "Let's get pissed."

\---

The pounding of the bass is the only thing keeping Harry steady as Abby takes his sweaty hand and drags him closer to the center of the dance floor. She glances over her shoulder at him, then at Niall who's following from behind with one hand on the small of Harry's back. She smirks at both of them, eyes sparkling in the strobe lights, and Harry can't believe this is happening. Not once in his life did he imagine he'd be pressing up close behind _Abby,_ of all people, in the middle of a club, feeling her hands reach back for his hips, the taste of tequila from the shot she'd just convinced him to take still burning in his mouth.

"Should I take a picture?" Niall laughs straight into his ear over the sound of the music. "One for the memories."

Harry shakes his head, the room spinning, body pinned between his best friend and the coworker he previously couldn't stand. God, he does _not_ want to remember this. This is the weirdest fucking night out he's had in a while. But it's good. As good as a night of dancing can be when he's not pressed up against his boyfriend, Travis' hands spread all over him, a hot mouth running up and down his neck from behind.

"You have to relax," Abby teases, hips swaying as she turns around to face him. "Are you always this stiff? Loosen up. Move those hips, kid."

She takes his hands and puts them on her waist, and Harry just hears Niall cackle from behind him again.

"I'm so not drunk enough for this."

"Harry, you've drunk more than either of us," Abby tells him, and she's right, but that doesn't mean he's drunk enough for this. "Come on, you can't be this bad at dancing."

"It's because you're a girl," Niall yells at her over the music.

Harry snorts. "No, it's not."

"Then it's because you're annoying."

Abby lets go of Harry's waist to flip Niall off. "You're an arse. It's because I'm not his boyfriend."

She has a point.

"Would it help if you pretended she was Travis?" Niall tries, and Harry appreciates the effort, but no. He's pretty sure that wouldn't help, nor be appropriate.

"She's like half his size," he shouts back over his shoulder.

"Then I'm getting more shots," Niall decides. Before Harry can stop him, he starts squeezing back through the crowd of sweaty, drunk bodies, leaving Harry literally in Abby's hands.

"Are you at least having fun?" Abby asks, giving his hips a little squeeze as she moves to the beat, genuine concern in her eyes.

"I am," Harry nods.

"Are you?"

"Yeah," Harry says with a soft, lazy smile, because he is. He's not sulking in his flat. He's not cooped up in the hospital. He's drunk, senses pleasantly fuzzy, and his friends are trying their damn hardest to give him a good time.

To prove it, he picks Abby's hand off his side and gives her a little twirl in whatever tight bit of space they have for themselves. She goes for it, giggling, crashing drunkenly into Harry's chest on the way back.

"You're so bad at this," she snorts, hands gripping his shoulders as she stays pressed up against his front. "I think you need to have my shot when Niall gets back."

"I'm going to regret this in the morning, aren't I?" Harry asks, letting his body relax into hers, letting her move them together, as one.

"Probably," Abby says with another quiet laugh. "But you're out here, living. And I think that's what your boyfriend would want."

\---

He tumbles out of Niall's bed at five in the morning to puke his guts out, feeling rather pathetic as he takes up residence on the bathroom floor, still a little drunk, head bent between his knees, not quite regretting it, but wondering at what age he stopped being able to handle his alcohol.

He digs his phone from his back pocket because he's still wearing his work trousers, having apparently fallen asleep in them without a second thought. As he waits for the next round of vomiting to start up, he sees a number of unread texts from Louis still waiting on his screen.

_These are incredible Harry. How did you even take some of these photos?_

He links to one of a half eaten chocolate bar floating over a mint green backdrop.

_Like did you take the photo first and then photoshop the shadow beneath it?_

_Or is the chocolate actually on a little platform?_

_It looks like it's flying. It looks fake._

_Oh wait. Lottie said it's probably hanging by fishing line or something. Makes sense. She's really impressed too by the way._

_This one's my favorite_ , he says about a photo of a football boot hung mid-air much like the chocolate bar.

He then proceeds to name four others as his favorite. Even with his stomach threatening to have another go at it and this awful pressure between his ribs, Harry can't help but be amused.

_These are all very minimalistic. I know my opinion means shit when there are professionals giving you advice, but you're really good at this. No offense, but how do you not have a steady flow of job offers?_

Harry lets out a tired, strained laugh. That is a great question.

Maybe his style is just _too_ simplistic, too minimalistic, not what anyone's currently looking for in London. Or maybe he just isn't putting himself out there enough, not in front of the right people at least.

_You'll catch a break one of these days._

Harry glances down at his seat on the bathroom floor. He's got a horrible hangover, he's afraid to sleep in his flat by himself, he can't afford a night out with his friends, and his boyfriend is in a fucking coma. Louis' optimism is astounding. Not unwelcome, but still, _astounding_.

_One last question. Why did you make this person stand in a pool wearing an orange suit?_

Because it had looked cool, is the response Harry would give if he had his phone out at the time these were sent. But he hadn't. He'd been doing shots with his coworkers.

The next message is just a photo, two kids wearing football kits, holding up trophies, grinning from ear to ear with five teeth missing between them. With a jolt, Harry realizes he's looking at a photo of Travis as a kid. Travis and Louis. He can count on three fingers the number of photos he's seen from Travis' childhood and this is one of them.

_Thought I'd share some pics with you too. Look at those haircuts. What a couple of studs._

For a moment, Harry forgets about the fact that he's two minutes away from puking again, and just stares at the photo. That's his boy. In a football kit. His boy who claims to have zero interest in football. His boy who'd once gone three days without talking to him all because Harry had brought home tickets he'd won to a Manchester United game for their first Valentine's Day.

He'd been a cute kid. Louis, too. But that doesn't explain the muddled confusion Harry feels when he sees the football between them, the lopsided grins on their faces, the trophies held in their hands.

So he scrolls through the rest of the photos.

They range from when Louis and Travis were six years old all the way through their awkward teenage years. The haircuts get far worse before they get better. Their teeth fall out and grow in, separate, and then get pulled back together with mouths full of braces. A photo of Travis cuddling with Louis' massive childhood dog has Harry falling a little more in love. Another of them as teenagers after a football game has him feeling even more confused when he spots the captain's armband wrapped around Travis' bicep.

And then Harry goes to save one of six-year-old Travis asleep in the middle of a giant blanket fort next to six-year-old Louis, and a calendar reminder pops up at the top of the screen.

It's his and Travis' three year anniversary.

Harry doesn't reply to any of Louis' texts. He sets his phone facedown next to the sink, crawls back over to the toilet, and immediately throws up whatever's left in his stomach.

\---

Niall assumes it's just the hangover keeping him quiet all morning and into the early afternoon. Harry doesn't tell him what day it is, doesn't try to explain why he wants to go to the hospital alone again, just showers, tries to stomach a dry piece of toast, and leaves. He doesn't need the extra sympathy. He doesn't need anyone to try and make him feel _good_ today.

Louis sends him another text just to let him know what time his train is supposed to arrive, and then another, seconds later, to check that he hasn't fallen off the face of the earth.

 _I'm fine. See you later._ Harry texts him back just so he doesn't have to worry. It's not Louis' fault Travis isn't awake to celebrate three years together. It's not Louis' fault Harry sits at Travis' bedside for two hours wondering if it really counts as three years if Travis has only been conscious for two years and 349 days.

Still, he's in a mood all throughout his shift at work. He snaps at Abby despite what a good time they'd had the night before and how unusually sweet she'd been to him. That pisses her off so she refuses to help with his tables. Pete calls out sick, still hungover, which means they each have to take on part of his load. And Niall has the night off. There's no one there to pull Harry out of it and get him to open up, and by the time Harry throws his jacket on and storms out of there at the end of his shift, he's practically ready to tear his heart out and let the first car that passes flatten him into the ground.

He cries on the tube and he cries on the walk home from the station, but it's dark and it's late, and no one's around to see him, and when he steps into his flat, the living room is empty and there's an unopened bottle of wine on the kitchen table with a photo he _has_ seen before, one of him and Travis, stuck to the front of the bottle and note from Louis pinned beneath it, and that's just... It's a lot.

 _Here's to a better fourth anniversary,_ the note says. _Drink up. I'll be back late. x_

It's almost eleven, and Harry's already had enough to drink for one weekend, but he isn't on the restaurant schedule for the next day and he could really use this.

He pours himself a full glass, changes into a pair of joggers, and fits himself into the corner of the couch. When he turns on the television, _The Notebook_ is already playing. Travis hates that movie. Harry leaves it on and pulls out his phone to send a message to Louis.

_Thanks for the wine. Sorry you're not here to watch me get drunk and ugly cry._

He drags one of his blankets over his legs and watches those little dots pop up at the bottom of their conversation, waiting for Louis to send his response.

_Are you really ugly crying?_

Harry takes another sip of his wine. _Not yet._

_Not yet? H don't ugly cry or I'll have to ditch Liam's super exciting Avengers marathon to stop you. Can I call?_

_Go ahead,_ Harry responds.

His phone rings not five seconds later, Louis' name in bold across the screen.

"Hi," Harry answers, voice a little thicker than he'd like it to be. "I'm not crying, I promise. I'm just... going through it."

"I'm sorry," Louis apologizes, the wince audible in his tone. Harry can hear the distant sound of the movie in the background, Liam asking who he's on the phone with. "It's Harry," Louis answers before the movie sounds fade, the phone carried into another room. "I didn't mean to upset you, Harry. I thought you might do the bath thing again and have a quiet night without me bursting in on you this time. You weren't supposed to put on the world's saddest romance movie and wallow in your pajamas."

"Oops," Harry murmurs. He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch.

"Yeah," Louis huffs. _"Oops."_

"How'd you know it was my anniversary?"

"I always remembered it was in October," Louis explains, voice soft, "and then when I was going through Travis' Instagram for pictures, there was one from last year's anniversary."

"Oh," Harry says.

He wants to ask Louis why he'd thought it would be a good idea to give him the flat for another night. He wants to ask him why he's out, why he'd bothered with the wine, why he'd wanted to call.

"Do you want to come home and watch The Notebook with me?" he asks instead. It's not going to bring him any answers, but he can't stand the thought of having to spend the next few hours alone.

Louis barely hesitates. Harry hears him blow out a steady breath, imagines he's got his head outside a window, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, the smoke unfurling into the cool, crisp air.

"I'll be there in half an hour," Louis says. "Save me a seat."

It only takes him twenty minutes, but Harry finds himself two and a half glasses in at that point, nose stuffed, eyes clouded over, his chest physically _aching,_ all because of some silly fictional characters and their silly fictional love for each other.

"Hey," Louis says as he kicks his shoes off at the door and hangs his jacket on one of the hooks, and then, "Hey," again, much softer, as he rounds the couch and catches sight of Harry's blotchy face. "I thought we said no crying."

"I never made any promises," Harry reminds him. "And I'm not crying."

"Good," Louis says, dropping onto the couch beside him. He smells like smoke again, like cheap beer. "Don't."

"They're just so in love." Harry gestures at the television. "How can two people be so in love and still not have it work out?"

How can his boyfriend be in a coma on their third anniversary? How is he supposed to believe in love if it's not enough to keep them together?

"You're a lightweight, aren't you?" Louis notes, eyeing the half-empty bottle. "And it does work out. They get married and have a family and grow old with each other. Or did you forget the end of the film?"

Harry shoots him a dark look. "Did you forget the part where they don't see each other for like _seven_ years? Seven years is a long time, Louis. How am I supposed to feel like this for seven years?"

"First of all," Louis says, ready to talk him off this ledge, "you don't know it's going to be seven years without Travis. It could be seven weeks, it could be seven more days-"

"It could be forever."

Louis rolls his eyes and draws his knees to his chest. "Alright, it could be forever," he admits. "But you don't have to feel like this forever. You _aren't_ going to feel like this forever, probably not even for seven more years."

"What's that say about me, then?" Harry has to ask. He takes another sip of his wine. "If this lasts seven years and I somehow move on, what does it say about me if Travis wakes up and I'm married and have a family with someone else?"

"I thought you didn't want to think about this." Louis frowns.

Harry doesn't, but it's their first anniversary apart, and he's not sure how many more he's supposed to go through on his own, how many more he'll be able to handle. Also, the wine is making him a bit frantic, suppressed emotions bubbling back up towards the surface.

"Does that make me a bad person?" he asks, feeling miserable. "If I do think about it, if I try to be realistic and look at the possibilities, does that mean I don't actually love him as much as I feel like I do? If I can think about having to move on eventually, does that mean he isn't actually _the one?"_

Louis snorts. "Does he feel like the one?"

"Hey," Harry whines, but he answers anyway. "I don't know," he sighs, "I mean, I do know. I- yeah. I'm not going to lie, I've thought about getting engaged, and I-"

 _"Engaged?"_ Louis cuts him off, his eyes going wide.

Harry's stomach drops, his heart stutters against his ribcage. "Why do you say it like that?"

"You've thought about getting engaged?" Louis asks like he's never heard anything more absurd. "To Travis?"

The last bit of air slips from Harry's lungs. He has to force himself to take another breath, his insides suddenly burning from the heat of the wine, his head spinning.

"Yes," he says, utterly confused, struggling to keep up. "To Travis. Who else would I be getting engaged to?"

"No one," Louis shakes his head. "Did you ever talk to Travis about this?"

"I mean, we haven't picked out rings or anything," Harry answers truthfully, "but I think it's been pretty heavily implied that I want a future with him."

"Define _heavily."_

Harry shifts around on his cushion, angling himself away from the scene playing out on his television. "I've brought it up a few times, but I'm pretty sure I've said the words, 'I want to marry you and start a family with you,' directly to his face. Is that heavily enough?"

"I don't know," Louis shrugs. "What was his response?"

"Well, it was..." Harry pauses, feels his cheeks start to turn pink. "The last time was during, like... We were being, you know... intimate."

 _"Intimate,"_ Louis drawls. "Jesus, Harry, I'm not your ninety year old aunt."

"Alright," Harry huffs, getting frustrated. "We were fucking and I said it, and he just- I don't know. He just kind of shook his head at me and laughed."

Like he'd thought it had been cute, like he couldn't believe Harry had said it. Like he'd wanted it as well.

Louis just stares at him pointedly, and Harry's not sure he likes this game.

"What?" he asks. "Are you saying he doesn't want to marry me?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"We've been together for three years," Harry says. "It doesn't have to be tomorrow - obviously it's not going to be tomorrow - but some time in the future? Is that such a crazy thing to want?"

"No, Harry, it's not," Louis sighs, scratching at his knee through the hole in his jeans.

"Then why are you looking at me like I have six heads?"

He grabs the remote and mutes the film so that it's just them, just their silence and their words going unsaid, and waits for Louis to give him an answer, whether he wants to hear it or not.

"Because," Louis says as gently as he can manage, "I've known Travis since I was six years old, and he has always, _always,_ from the time we left sixth form until the last time we'd discussed it, _scoffed_ at the idea of getting married and having kids of his own."

And that's... that's news to Harry. That's something he's never heard come out of his boyfriend's mouth. The same boyfriend who never told his parents about him, the same one who's never explained to Harry how he'd ended up resenting those parents, the same one fighting for his life in a hospital twenty minutes away. Harry realizes he's squeezing his wine glass so hard his knuckles have turned white, the glass ready to shatter.

"I'm not saying that's how he feels about you," Louis adds quietly, which is great because the earth feels like it's starting to crumble away from right beneath Harry's arse. "I'm just surprised you didn't know that was how he felt."

"Yeah," Harry exhales, skin prickling, heating up all over again but for a completely different reason. He sets his glass down, stomach churning, heart racing. He just about manages to find his voice again. "Me too."

"I'm sorry."

"When was the last time you discussed it?" Harry asks.

"Harry..."

"Just answer the question," he breathes because he has to know. "Please."

"Alright," Louis says, his eyes dropping to the toes of his socks before flitting back up. "It was over Christmas. It was last December when we were both home for the holidays. I remember talking about it then."

Christmas. Less than a year ago. When Harry had been sulking in Holmes Chapel with his mum and trying desperately to understand why his boyfriend didn't want to bring him to Doncaster for the week. Christmas was the last time Louis heard Travis talk about this.

"Harry," Louis breaks in softly, "Harry, this doesn't mean he doesn't love you or that he can't be _the one._ He could have changed his mind since then. He could have just been talking shit. We don't know."

They don't, and there's no way to find out, not with Travis in the state that he's in, and Harry's trying really hard not to panic about that.

"We had been fighting," he says slowly, pausing to take a deeper breath, clear his head. "Right before he went home, we had an argument, a big one, over why he still hadn't taken me to meet his parents. Maybe he was just... I don't know..."

"In a bad headspace," Louis supplies, putting into words the thoughts Harry can't fully string together. "Maybe he was still worked up over the fight and he just said some things he didn't really mean."

"Yeah," Harry nods, because it's easier than imagining otherwise. Because they _have_ spoken about it, maybe not in official, set-in-stone terms, but Harry _has_ made other comments over the past three years about these things, not just explicitly that one time during sex. He's teased Travis about putting a ring on it. He's said things like, 'when we're old and we've been married for fifty years.' He's pointed to tiny baby clothes in storefront windows and cooed about how fucking cute their future children will be. Not once did Travis ever stop him.

"I'm sorry," Louis apologizes when the silence stretches on. "I just thought, like. Travis was always pretty vocal about it. I didn't mean to make you second-guess anything."

"It's fine," Harry says, releasing a heavy breath. He just needs to digest all of this. "It's not your fault, I get it. I just-"

He just wishes Travis were there to talk to.

It's their anniversary. He shouldn't be spending it without him.

If he could just hear his voice, speak to him, ask him about these things, then at least there wouldn't be any doubt. At least he would know. They've had their fair share of arguments over the years, but this... _this_ would probably lead down a different road.

If it is true.

If Travis doesn't intend to get married. If he doesn't want kids. If their relationship has just been... going nowhere.

"Hey," Louis says, reaching for the remote to unmute the film. "I didn't mean to ruin your night and now I feel like a proper dick about it. Why don't we just watch the rest of the film and forget I said anything. I hear there's a happy ending."

"They both die," Harry reminds him, trying to calm his heart.

"Yeah," Louis says, "after they live out the rest of their lives together."

He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie just as his phone buzzes on the couch between them.

Harry makes the great mistake of glancing down at the screen. There's a penis in the text preview. A very erect penis, just standing there, clear and hard as anything.

"Fucking hell," Louis swears, slapping a hand over his phone.

Harry clears his throat. "Nice."

"Shut up."

"Is that Adrian?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm not judging." Harry throws his hands up in his defense, glad for the distraction. "You've been away for over two weeks. He probably just misses you. It's sweet."

Louis' face could not grow any redder if it tried.

"It's definitely _not_ sweet," he scoffs. "Here we are, having a serious talk about Trav, and he sends me a fucking dick pic. What does he expect me to do all the way from London?"

"I don't know," Harry says tiredly, "but I think that's my cue to go to bed."

Louis groans, his head falling back against the couch, his phone falling into his lap. "I am not having phone sex in my best mate's flat. In _your_ flat. What about the film?"

"I've already seen the ending, and yeah, they both die," Harry says, gently stuffing the throw pillow against Louis' chest before starting to get up. "Just because _my_ sex drive's been less than non-existent since the accident doesn't mean you can't have some fun."

"I can't believe you just said that," Louis mumbles, refusing to look at him. "I'm not doing this."

Harry raises an affronted eyebrow. "You're just going to leave him like that?"

"Yes?"

"Louis."

"For all he knows, I could be asleep."

"But you're not," Harry reminds him as he sits his arse on the very edge of the arm rest. "Aren't you even the slightest bit interested? It looked like a nice dick."

"Oh my god," Louis breathes, cheeks still tinged a bright pink with embarrassment. "It _is_ a nice dick, but I'm not- god. Why am I having this conversation with you?"

"Because you bought me a bottle of wine and made me cry," Harry says, "and you _know_ this is distracting me from replaying every single instance of Travis and I discussing our future in my head."

Louis picks his phone up, unlocks it, then locks it again just to get the notification off his screen. "I'm an arsehole."

"You're not," Harry promises. "But please, by all means, don't let me stop you from answering him."

"I'm not going to," Louis shakes his head and grabs Harry's blanket from where he left it on the couch. "Come back and watch the rest of the film with me."

He pats the space next to him, and when Harry doesn't move, Louis takes his wrist and tugs him down, Harry falling ungracefully against his side.

"You're really not going to text him back?" Harry asks, shifting so his elbow isn't digging into Louis' ribs.

"Maybe tomorrow," Louis sighs. "I'm trying not to get too attached, remember?"

And Harry does remember, but this doesn't seem like attachment. It just seems like phone sex, and for someone who hasn't had any form of sex in half a month, who doesn't think he could get hard at the moment even if his life depended on it, whose boyfriend literally cannot offer him any help in the area, not that he's in any mood to try - Harry might be a little envious.

He doesn't tell Louis any of that, though.

He just settles against him, grabs his blanket from earlier, and tries to refocus on the movie.

It doesn't work.

Five minutes pass before he's picking his head off Louis' shoulder and reaching for the wine bottle again.

"Does it even matter?" he asks, foregoing his glass and ignoring Louis' fingers pulling at his jumper, trying to get him to fall back where he'd been. "If Trav doesn't get better, if he doesn't wake up, does it even matter if he wants to marry me and have a family?"

Because it doesn't, does it? He can be worry about it all he wants, he can be pissed at Travis, he can work himself up over it, can think it over in his head a thousand times, but at the end of the day, does it _even fucking matter?_

At this point, he doesn't know if they'll even have a future together let alone one where they can argue about what they want and don't want. None of it means anything until Travis is awake.

All Harry has for now is trust.

Trust that Travis hadn't been leading him on. Trust that they'd been in it together. Trust that his boyfriend would have spoken up if he'd wanted something different out of their relationship.

With a small shrug, Louis pulls at his sleeve once more until Harry falls back against his side.

"It matters if you want it to."

\---

Harry barely sleeps that night. Despite the wine trying its hardest to knock him out, he lies alone in his bed, eyes shut, body exhausted, his mind unable to shut down. Because apparently, it does matter, even if he doesn't want it to.

It still smells like Travis in there. He's washed the sheets, changed their pillowcases, done his best to not become that person who lets something like a near-fatal car accident hold him back in life and make him sleep in dirty sheets, and yet it still smells like Travis.

He doesn't want it to smell like Travis. Not in that moment.

He just feels a little lost, that's all. Lost and unsure and like someone's driven him out into the middle of the forest and left him there with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Like Travis has left him there.

He tries not to worry about it, think about it, let it get to him, but the feeling doesn't go away.

It sticks with him all night. It sticks with him through the entire next day, there when he wakes up, there when he sees Louis off for another interview, there when he finally works up enough courage to throw on some decent enough clothes and walk his arse down to the hospital.

It's like facing Travis after an argument, not yet knowing who was wrong or who came out on top, and Travis hasn't even done anything.

The entire conflict could all just exist in Harry's head.

That doesn't stop him from being an anxious wreck the whole way there. That doesn't do anything to keep him from sweating through his jumper on the crowded tube, from tripping over his own feet while entering the hospital, from nearly emptying his stomach in the first bin he passes.

It takes him ten minutes of pacing around the corridor and trying to compose himself before he works up the nerve to step into Travis' room. And it's not like Travis is even aware of what he's going through, not like he knows anything at all about the weight in Harry's chest or the way Harry takes a timid seat beside him, the way his mouth is too dry to say hello. It still feels awful. It still feels like they're in a fight, even if they aren't, even if no words have even been exchanged.

So Harry just sits there, unable to find his voice, not sure what he'd even say at this point to someone who can't even hear him. It's been almost twenty days of this, and it's just getting harder and harder to cope.

It's not like Travis even knows he's there.

Stuck in the woods with no one but himself, Harry angles his chair towards the television, puts on some simple nature program, lets the drone of the narrator's voice try to occupy his thoughts for the next two hours. Then he calls his boss and asks if he can be put on the schedule for that night, even though it's his day off, even though he's running on barely any sleep, even though he knows he shouldn't.

\---

The clock on Travis' bedside table reads eight minutes past three when Harry finally admits defeat that night. It's just shit. It's shit because this is the second night in a row where sleep seems just out of his reach, shit because he's exhausted and cranky and there's nothing he can do to fix that, shit because he's gotten this far without any serious insomnia, and _now,_ now is when everything starts getting fucked up. Now. After a tiny seed of doubt has been planted in his mind. After the long-term future of his and Travis' relationship has come into question.

If it weren't for Louis asleep in the living room, he'd sink his teeth into his pillow and just fucking scream until his vocal chords rip.

Instead, he climbs out of bed and turns on the low light in the corner of their room, digs around in Travis' sock drawer until he finds what he's looking for, pauses with the pack of cigarettes in his hand.

He stares into the open drawer.

What if... What if Travis _had_ been planning ahead? What if there is something? A ring? A little box hidden amongst the mismatched socks, his briefs, tucked in somewhere between Travis' vintage t-shirts or his worn-out jeans? What if Harry could prove to himself, as simple as that, that Travis had wanted what he'd wanted?

He drops the unopened pack of cigarettes on the bed and starts combing through everything, pulling out socks, gym shorts, pajamas, jumpers, anything in his way, yanking each drawer open as this desperate bit of hope clings to him and refuses to let go. He's not imagining it. He hasn't been lying to himself for the past three years. Travis was in this with him. He'd wanted what Harry had wanted, if Harry could just- just find a ring, a journal, something, a _sign,_ he'd be able to rest knowing his boyfriend hadn't been holding anything back from him.

It's only as he's reaching into the far left corner of the last drawer, Travis' clean clothes strewn all about him on the bedroom floor, that his fingers close around something small, something solid and square.

Heart about to spring forth from his chest, he snatches the item from beneath a pair of jeans and pulls it out.

It's a box.

But it's not the box he'd been hoping for. Because he's seen this box. He knows what's inside of it, and it isn't a ring. It's the box he'd given to Travis during their first real date, an apology for taking his picture without his permission. It's an undeveloped roll of film, the same roll with the very first photos he'd ever taken of Travis sitting on it. Those photos and whatever else he'd snapped around that time have just been sitting in the back of Travis' drawer all these years, untouched.

There's no ring. Obviously there's no ring. Marriage had never been put on the table, never seriously discussed, and Harry's a fool for hoping Travis would have taken his half-arsed hints and run with them.

With trembling hands and a sob lodged high in the back of his throat, he pushes all of Travis' clothes away from the foot of their bed and reaches behind himself for the emergency pack of cigarettes. It's been in Travis' drawer for over a year, waiting for Travis' stress levels to rise high enough for him to need a different sort of release. He's not a smoker, neither is Harry, but sometimes- sometimes staring blankly at the walls or dumping an entire wardrobe on the floor just isn't enough.

Harry lights the cigarette, crawls over to the window, opens it to keep the smell of smoke out, and just tries to breathe.

\---

It's even worse the next day because Louis follows him to the hospital this time, and even with him there, tracking his behavior, observing all of his moves, Harry still can't find it within himself to give his boyfriend a kiss on the forehead, to squeeze his fingers, to do much more than sit down at the side of his bed and stare at his lifeless body.

Louis notices. Of course he notices. But he doesn't say anything at first, not until they've sat there in near silence for forty minutes, not until Harry's conscience has worked itself into such a tight bind that it feels like a hole has opened in his stomach and his eyes might burn from having to keep blinking away the sting of more tears.

"I think," Louis says cautiously as the morning talk show neither of them are truly watching comes to an end, "today might be better spent elsewhere."

He turns to face Harry, addressing him for the first time in half an hour, and Harry can tell at once that he doesn't like what he sees.

"Do you want to help me find a place to live?" Louis asks without addressing how red Harry's eyes are or how grey and tired the rest of his face must look.

Harry's gaze flickers over to Travis and back, his insides churning.

"Okay," he says.

Louis nods. "Okay."

\---

They make it all of two minutes out of the hospital before Louis broaches the subject.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, checking the address of the flat listings on his phone. "Is this about the other night? You're still upset about what I said?"

"I guess," Harry says quietly, his voice scratching up the back of his throat.

"Alright," Louis says. "Then let's talk."

"I don't even know where to start," Harry sighs. He feels like he's got a million different backwards and twisted tangles of thoughts in his head and none of them have a beginning or an end to unravel.

"Are you angry with Travis?" Louis asks. "Because I'm not sure if you've noticed, but the lad's been lying in that bed for a few weeks now. He hasn't done anything."

"I know," Harry allows. "That's the problem though, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"He hasn't done anything," Harry repeats. "He hasn't said anything. He never once brought up how he might feel about marriage and kids. He never stopped me when I started talking about it. How do I know he wasn't just going to let me dream up my little day dreams and never follow through?"

"Trust?" Louis suggests. "Trust, Harry. You have to trust that he's a better person than that."

"And if I'm having a bit of a hard time doing that?" Harry asks, feeling sick.

"Why?" Louis frowns. "Has he made you think he's not a good person?"

"No," Harry shakes his head. "No, never."

"Then what's the problem?"

Harry lets out a weighted breath as they slip into the underground and descend down the long length of stairs.

"I just feel like there's so much about him that I don't know," he says. "Like, maybe he hasn't been actively lying to my face or anything, but with this and the whole thing with his parents not even knowing about me, and all the fucking secrecy there, I just feel like there's this complete other side of him that he never let me see."

He glances up at the directional signs above his head, not that he needs them anymore at this point. He's been through this tube station almost every day for almost three weeks. He could probably walk it with his eyes closed. Instead, he tilts his head towards Louis, sees the scowl on his face, knows he isn't going to agree with him.

"You're taking his side," he states before Louis can even gather up the words to prove him wrong. Louis' scowl deepens, and Harry just shakes his head, feet pattering along the stairs. "Of course you're taking his side. He's your best mate."

"He is," Louis nods. "I've known him since I was six years old, Harry. I've seen sides of him that you haven't, but you've also spent the last three years with him while I was on a completely different continent. Who's to say that my Travis is so different from yours? Or that my Travis didn't just grow up and become the person you love?"

"But that's not the issue," Harry shakes his head, struggling to put his fears into words. "I don't care if he's changed over the years. I don't care if- if he doesn't talk to his parents, if he used to hate the thought of getting married but now he's fine with it. Even if he still hates it, that's not the problem."

"Then what _is_ the problem?"

"The problem," Harry says, "is that he never told me. He never told me that's how he felt. He never told me that his parents didn't even know my name. I still don't know why he never talks to them, and it just- I don't know. It just makes me feel like he doesn't trust _me."_

And that's the core of the issue. That's what's been bothering Harry so much these past two days. That's why he can barely handle being in the same room as his boyfriend without his stomach cramping.

He's afraid that the Travis he knows is just Travis at his surface value. What he sees is what he's allowed to see, and anything else, anything deeper, anything past that blanket exterior, is locked up in the cages of Travis' heart. And if Travis truly loves him, if Harry is right there in his heart next to all of those cages, then why hasn't Travis ever let him in?

"If he were awake," Louis proposes as they come to a stop halfway down the empty platform, "what would you do about it?"

"It doesn't matter," Harry says. "He's not awake."

"Okay," Louis nods slowly. "But if you want to humor me for a second?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "I'd probably ask him which way he sees our relationship going."

"And then what?"

"And then," Harry says, "depending on his answer, we either wouldn't be speaking to each other anymore, or I'd be asking him more questions. Like why does he have such a problem with getting married? Why doesn't he want a family of his own? Does it have anything to do with his parents?"

"It does," Louis answers. "That's what Travis would say. Now you don't have to ask him."

"But _why_ does it have to do with his parents?" Harry pushes. "What did they do to him that was so awful?"

"They just weren't ever the parents he deserved," Louis says for probably the millionth time. "Travis doesn't want to end up like them. He doesn't want to end up raising a kid who hates him."

"That's bullshit."

"Is it?"

"He wouldn't be like them at all," Harry argues. "I'm sure he'd be great with his own kids."

Louis shakes his head. "But this is where I know him better than you," he says. "Travis has always been terrible with children. You should have seen him with my siblings growing up. He was even worse when the youngest twins came."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"No," Louis agrees, "but it probably hasn't done anything to help the situation."

"Why are you telling me this?"

It's not easing any of the worries in Harry's chest. It's not making him trust his boyfriend any more. If anything, it's only driving home the point that Travis hasn't felt the need to confide in him any of these thoughts he's been perfectly capable of sharing with Louis.

"You said you'd be asking him these same questions if he were here to answer," Louis reiterates. "I'm just answering on his behalf so you don't start hating my best mate over some stupid shit I shouldn't have told you."

As if someone's cut a hole through his chest, Harry feels his heart deflate.

"That's not what this is," he says, breath coming thin and ragged. "I'm- I'm hurt. I'm disappointed, I'm confused. I don't understand why Travis never spoke to me about these things, but I don't- I could never hate him."

"Then what do you want from him?" Louis asks.

Harry doesn't answer. What he wants is out of his control, out of anyone's control, something only time and patience can give him, and he's not sure how much of that he has left. What he wants is for Travis to wake up and be able to fix this. What he wants is for everything to just stop hurting.

"Alright," Louis tries again when Harry doesn't say anything, fixing him a serious look. "What do you want from me then? What can I do to help? What on earth could I possibly say to make you feel less fucking miserable about this than you already do?"

"I don't _know,"_ Harry groans, growing tired and frustrated. He scrubs both hands down his face and just tries to breathe. "I don't fucking know, Louis."

"Try."

Harry does, he's been trying for the past three weeks, why stop now. "What I want is- I just want him to explain to me why he never bothered to tell me any of these things," he says, "and I know- I know he can't, and I know you don't have the answers."

This is useless. All of this is fucking useless.

Louis lets out a much gentler sigh than Harry deserves or expects as the platform starts to rumble beneath their feet.

"I don't know why Travis kept things from you," he says before the train can barrel into the station. "You're right about that. But I _am_ trying to help."

"How?" Harry huffs with a weak, pained laugh as he digs his fingers into the corners of his stinging eyes. "By telling me how awful he is with kids?"

"No," Louis shakes his head, but the rest of his answer has to wait as the train emerges from of the tunnel and slows to a stop along the tracks. He holds his tongue as the doors slide open and a handful of people file out, but he's ready to finish his thought as soon as he and Harry step aboard and take two empty seats near the back.

Harry just sinks into the bench and waits for the train's movements to calm him down and lull him back into the safety of his own head.

"I'm not trying to prove any points here," Louis says, voice hushed. "I'm just trying to give you more information so maybe, _maybe_ you can see it from his perspective."

"And what perspective is that?"

"That's for you to decide," Louis says. "I know I said once before that it was Travis' story to tell, but if it helps you understand why he's done some of the things he's done, then I'll tell you what you want to know."

Harry thinks about it. He thinks about it and he thinks about all of the stories from Travis' childhood, his teenage years, even his life in uni, that he's never heard before, and he tries to imagine what good could come from scratching his own hole into Travis' past. What if he doesn't like what he finds? What if he can't see things from Travis' point of view? What if Travis wakes up one of these days to find out that Harry knows all of these private stories? What if he hates Harry for it?

But would it really be that bad? Because Louis is mostly right - if Travis were awake, Harry would still be prying these same answers out of him anyway. He'd find out sooner or later no matter what.

"I'm not even sure what there is to know," he finally says, shaking his head with exhaustion. They're on their way to look at flats and he has another long shift at the restaurant later on. Is he supposed to just sit here and have a question and answer session with Travis' best friend as they travel through the tunnels?

"Well," Louis concedes, "there's a lot. Travis is a complicated person and I've known him for a long fucking time."

"Exactly," Harry says, trying to figure out how to start this. He lets out a quiet sigh and shrugs. "I guess there's the obvious question."

"Which is?"

"Why doesn't he talk to his parents?"

Louis hangs his head and stares down at his feet.

"Going for the big one first?" he says with a quiet laugh.

He glances sideways at Harry, and Harry fixes him a hard look in return.

"If you're not going to answer, then don't offer to talk about it."

"I'll answer," Louis promises, holding up his hands in defense. "It's just not an easy answer. Like I said, it's wasn't just one big thing - I mean, there was a pretty clear-cut moment when I realized how fucked up it all was - but everything leading up to it and everything after it was all kind of shitty in its own way."

"Then what led up to it?" Harry presses.

"Everything?" Louis answers unhelpfully. "It was his parents buying a new telly instead of a new school uniform. It was forgetting to pick Travis up from football practice in the rain. It was never coming to watch his games. It was-"

But of all the things to have left Louis' mouth, what Harry latches onto is the football.

"What happened with football?" he interrupts, remembering the photos. "Those pictures you sent the other day... I don't get it. Travis hates football."

"No he doesn't," Louis says with a small furrow to his brow. "Travis is really fucking good at football."

And that doesn't make any sense.

"When we first started dating," Harry says, his heart locked in another vice, "I'd mention watching a game or having a kick-about with friends, and he'd just... I don't know, he'd shut down. He hated it. Our first real fight was over some tickets I bought to see United play."

Louis blinks at him. "Really?"

"Yeah," Harry exhales. "It's like we're not allowed to talk about it in our flat. We never talk about it. We never watch it. He hates it."

"That's-" Louis cuts himself off, shakes his head. "I mean, I can see why he might, considering the whole thing with the team and the money and such, but that's like- Shit, Harry. He really never told you anything?"

And all Harry can do is sit there and stare at him as the knife twists deeper within his chest.

"I've literally been saying that for weeks now," he argues. "You thought I've been freaking out over nothing, but I've literally never head any of this. I've been with him for three years, and like, I get that he might not want to talk about any of this, but for fuck's sake, he could have given me _something."_

It's not like he needs to know, not like the stories themselves would make him think any more or less of his boyfriend in the end, but on principle, the fact that Travis never thought to mention any of this to Harry, the fact that he purposely never let him in, kept all of this locked away in the hopes that Harry would never know or find out about it - that's what's absurd. That's what's digging away at the hole in his heart. That's what's got him so upset, so frazzled. That's why he can't look at his boyfriend's face or fall asleep in his bed at night.

"So you never heard the uni story?" Louis asks as the train rattles on, brakes screeching along the steel tracks.

"I haven't even the slightest idea what that even means," Harry sighs, frustration boiling up again.

"The uni story," Louis says again. "Like how his parents completely blew through almost all of Travis' uni savings without telling him?"

Harry's heart breaks. "No," he shakes his head. "No, I've never heard that one."

"Well, Travis showed up at my house one night," Louis starts to explain, "and I open the door to find him pacing my front step, tears in his eyes, freaking out because he found a stack of unpaid bills in his kitchen and when he went to confront his parents about it, they told him they were drowning in credit card debt and couldn't afford uni anymore."

"They just spent it all?" Harry asks in disbelief. "What kind of fucked up people put their own kid in that situation?"

"Apparently the Lowells," Louis shrugs. "They had to sell their home and move to this tiny flat on the far side of the school. And you have to understand that Travis basically grew up running around the corner to my house whenever he could. Like, my mum treated him like he was her own son. She helped him with his homework when he was ten years old, she let him stay for dinner whenever he wanted. There was one summer where I swear he snuck out every night to come sleep on my bedroom floor. My house was like his sanctuary."

"And then he had to move," Harry closes the gaps in the story.

"Yeah," Louis nods. "He had to move and neither of us had a car yet, let alone a driver's license, and flip-phones were still a thing, so it's not like it was easy to chat, and he just hated it. He absolutely hated it. He got into a pretty bad argument with his parents over it one night and he called me, asking if my mum could pick him up and if he could stay with us for a while. That backfired of course. His parents kind of went after my mum, accusing her of trying to turn their son against them all these years. It was so fucked up, I've never seen my mum get so upset."

"Christ," is all Harry can say.

It's like, he _knew_ there had to be a good reason Travis never talked to them, a reason Louis didn't much like them, a reason he, himself, got the feeling they weren't the most pleasant couple out there, but this? This makes him sick to his stomach, knowing that Travis went through this, that he never wanted to tell him about it.

"It's a lot," Louis agrees as the train slows again and they rise from their seats, their stop approaching. "Anyway, Trav disappeared for a week after that. No one knew where he'd gone. His parents swore we were keeping him with us, but we weren't. I didn't even know where he was until he texted me to say he was fine, just needed to get away for a bit. So I let him be, and when he came back, he quit the football team, got a second job at one of the local restaurants, and worked his arse off for the next year so he could get the hell out of there."

The train stops and the doors slide open, and even with the solid ground back beneath Harry's feet, he still feels a bit untethered, floating about, trying to make sense of everything.

"That sounds..." he mumbles as they make their way back above ground, "like a good enough reason not to like your parents."

"You reckon?" Louis huffs, stepping onto the escalator and angling himself down towards Harry. "When I say he was really fucking good at football, I mean he probably could have gone on to play for one of the minor teams if he wanted to, but he didn't want that. He just wanted to play for fun and go to uni, and be a normal fucking teenager, and they took that away from him."

"Why do you think he couldn't tell me any of this?" Harry has to ask, because hearing it is difficult and having to tell it would probably be even worse, but it's not an end-of-the-world sort of story. It's not something that would have driven Harry away if Travis had told him. It's not something that would change the dynamic of their relationship. Of course Harry feels pretty awful about it, that Travis had to go through this as a kid, but if he were awake, Harry wouldn't be treating him any differently, and the fact that Travis never thought to realize that? That's the part Harry doesn't understand.

They step off the escalator at the top and find their way out of the station, each of them throwing on their sunglasses as soon as they step outside.

"I don't know, Harry," Louis says, sounding almost as defeated as Harry feels. "Maybe it has nothing to do with you. Maybe he just doesn't like to think about it."

"Maybe," Harry allows quietly as Louis checks the street signs to figure out where they need to go.

"He did go through a lot at that time," Louis reminds him, nodding for them to head south. "He didn't have football anymore, he couldn't run off to my house because he was always working and I think he felt guilty about what happened with my mum - and then on top of it all, he had just come out. It wasn't an easy time for him, not for a while."

"But him being gay didn't change anything with his parents," Harry says, knowing that Travis' coming out hadn't affected their relationship, hadn't soured it. It's the one thing Travis has insisted upon whenever they'd argue about meeting his parents, whenever Harry had tried to pry something out of him. "He always said they were fine with him coming out, that they didn't make a fuss about it."

Louis snorts, reaching into his back pocket for a cigarette. "Probably because they were too shocked that he was bothering to come out to them in the first place."

He offers Harry a light, and Harry almost takes him up on it, except he doesn't think burning up his lungs anymore is going to do anything to help right now.

"No, thanks," he shakes his head.

"Right, you did smoke about half a pack last night," Louis says knowingly. He takes a quick drag and exhales a thin stream of smoke. "I really think Travis only explicitly came out to them so they'd be aware we were screwing around that last summer before uni."

Harry nods because it makes sense, and then he stops dead in his tracks because-

"What do you mean 'screwing around?'" he asks as every other thought in his head falls instantly to the wayside. "You and Travis were-?"

Were what? Dating? Fucking? First boyfriends? It's like someone's just pulled the final rug out from under his feet but there's no hard landing for him beneath it all. It's just free falling, all the way down.

"Fucking _hell,"_ Louis swears. "For the love of god, please tell me he at least told you _that."_

Harry gives his head a rough shake, because no. He never mentioned it at all. "Were you two, like, a thing?"

"Oh Christ," Louis exhales, and yeah, oh _Christ_ is fucking right. "I'm going to kill him," Louis says, pacing back and forth with his hands raised atop his head as if to pull at his hair. "I'm actually going to fucking kill him."

Harry has no idea what's going on.

"Louis," he says quietly, waiting for something, anything.

Louis stops pacing and takes another long drag of his cigarette.

"I swear I thought you knew," he says with a load groan. "We weren't, like, a proper thing, and it was only a handful of times, but we were teenagers and no one else was even a tiny bit out at the time, and it was definitely more of a convenience thing than something with actual feelings involved, I swear."

"But you were his first?" Harry finds enough of his voice to ask. His hands are shaking. He feels a little light-headed.

"Yeah," Louis confirms, no sense in denying it. "We were each other's firsts, but it never meant anything. It was just sex. We're like-"

"If you say 'brothers,' I swear to god I'll kick you into traffic." He's not angry at Louis, he's not jealous, he's just- "I don't even care that it was you, that you two have a history. I don't care about any of this," he says, tension rising in his shoulders. "Do you understand how shitty it feels to know that he never bothered to tell me any of this?"

And he thinks, for the first time since this shit-storm started, that maybe, yes, Louis finally does understand.

"He loves you," Louis says quietly, his face turning sad, guilty, even where his eyes are hidden behind his sunglass.

Harry knows that, or at least he thinks he knows it, thinks there must be some part of Travis that wants to call this love, whether it is or not.

"I feel like I don't know my own boyfriend anymore," he says, voice thin, rough around the edges.

"You do know him," Louis promises. "He's just a little more complicated now."

Harry shakes his head, takes a sharp breath. "Every day that goes by, it just feels like he's slipping further and further away from me. Like, we've been together for three years. We were always talking, but what did we actually talk about if I don't know _any_ of these things?"

"The news," Louis tries. "The weather? Sports?"

Harry shakes his head. "Definitely not sports."

"Each other?" Louis says, growing desperate. "Your day-to-day lives? Just because he didn't dig deep about his family and his childhood doesn't mean he didn't talk to you about himself."

Except it doesn't feel that way anymore. Not when he's been hiding all of these things, major things, this entire time.

"What am I supposed to do?" Harry asks, at a complete loss. "None of this is helping. You're not giving me _perspective,_ you're just making me realize that my boyfriend literally hasn't confided a single thing in me."

"I didn't mean to," Louis sighs, sounding just as helpless. "I genuinely didn't mean to make you feel that way."

"A bit late for that," Harry scoffs.

"I thought it was just the parents thing," Louis admits. "I thought that's all he didn't talk about. I didn't realize how bad it was."

"Pretty fucking bad," Harry sums it up for him. And he _knows_ he's opened up to Travis. His childhood certainly wasn't the worst, but he's told Travis about his parents splitting, about his stepdad getting sick, about the way his ex-boyfriend used to treat him. And those hurt, those weren't easy, they weren't fun to talk about, but Harry gave him those pieces of himself that he never needed to give, and for what?

"Harry," Louis tries, but even he can't defend his best friend right now. "Harry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry he never told you and I'm sorry he isn't here to explain himself. I'm sorry you had to hear it all from me, and I'm just- I'm sorry."

It's not his fault. None of this is Louis' fault. He shouldn't be apologizing for any of it, shouldn't have to try to explain Travis' behavior, shouldn't be the one telling him all of these things, shouldn't even have to tell them in the first place. This is all Travis' doing. All his parents' fault. And maybe, some twisted part of Harry considers, maybe it's his own fault too, for somehow convincing Travis that he wasn't worth telling, that he couldn't tell him, that he shouldn't tell him. Maybe he's somehow to blame for part of this, for not asking, for not prying. He doesn't know.

"I really hate this," he says, voice cracking again. "I can't fucking stand not being able to talk to him."

"You still can," Louis reminds him with a sour laugh. "Just show up at his hospital room tomorrow and go off on him, yell at him all you want. Get it out of your system. Maybe I'll join you."

"Yell all you want, it's not going to change anything," Harry says. He's not going to be able to shake this any time soon and he's not sure how he's going to manage to actually visit Travis in the hospital for the next week or so, knowing what he knows, feeling the way he feels.

But there's nothing he can do about it. He can't ask Travis to explain it. He can't get an answer out of anyone. All he can do is wait for a miracle, wait and accept things the way they are, wait and feel like he's gone and given his entire heart away without getting anything in return.

"I can't believe you slept with each other," he mutters, shaking his head.

"If it makes you feel better, it was never very good."

It doesn't make him feel better.

He's not sure anything would make him feel better at this point.

"Come on," Harry sighs, nodding down the stretch of road ahead of them. "We need to find you a place to live."

Louis laughs. "Afraid you might murder me if I stay on your couch a few extra weeks?"

"Exactly," Harry says, and before they turn to start walking again, he reaches into Louis' back pocket and digs out the cigarette he'd previously been offered.

Louis doesn't miss a beat, barely batting an eyelash as Harry tucks the box back where he'd found it, flicking his lighter on and holding it out for Harry to use.

"I hear smoking's bad for you," Louis says.

Harry just shrugs. "So is hiding things from your boyfriend, but that hasn't stopped anyone."

\---

The restaurant is quiet that night, slow even for a Tuesday, just a trickle of customers taking their time, enjoying their evenings, more than half of the tables remaining empty.

It means Harry doesn't earn as many tips. It means there's less work to distract him from the disaster burning in his head. It means he spills everything to Niall as soon as they're alone in the back of the kitchen, their tables cleaned up and gone for the night, only Abby left on the floor.

He recounts all of what Louis had told him in the hopes that having another opinion on the matter might bring better advice. Advice that isn't tainted by the fact that it's coming from his boyfriend's best mate. Advice that might make him feel better. If it's possible to feel better at all.

"Wait," Niall stops him towards the end of the story, a perfect mirror of Harry's own reaction to the bomb-drop. "Travis and Louis?"

"Yeah," Harry exhales, trying not to think about it.

 _"Your_ Travis, and _his_ Louis?"

"Yes."

"Travis fucked Louis. More than once. The same Louis that he invited to stay with you for a month."

"Yes, Niall, for fuck's sake, will you stop repeating it?" Harry groans, swinging a foot off the rung of his stool to give Niall's a little kick.

"How the fuck did he not tell you?" Niall asks, bewildered.

"Believe me," Harry says, "I'm dying to hear his answer."

"Was he just never going to mention it?" Niall presses. "After letting Louis stay in your flat, was he just going to pray that it would never come up? Was he gonna warn Louis beforehand, like, _listen mate, don't bring up the friends with benefits thing around Harry?_ What a dick."

 _"Niall,"_ Harry hisses, shooting him a dark look.

"What?" Niall gives a sheepish shrug. "Travis is a dick. He is an actual cock. I love him, but he truly fucked up with this."

"Do you think it's my fault?" Harry asks, putting words to those fears creeping around the restless corners of his head. "Like maybe he didn't think he could trust me with everything? Like I did something to make him believe that?"

"Not at all," Niall insists. "I would trust you with my life, Harry. This is all on him."

"Am I an arse for thinking I had any right to know these things?"

Niall starts fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves, ready to roll them up to fight the heat of the kitchen.

"No," he says firmly.

"That's it?" Harry frowns. "Just _no?"_

"You've been together for three years," Niall elaborates. "That's a serious relationship. You're allowed to ask questions, you're allowed to want to know his history. It's not like he's murdered anyone. You're not asking for much, H. This is like, half of who he is."

"Then why hide it?" Harry asks, feeling like he's going to collapse under the weight of the questions in his head. They're just clogging everything up there, making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to remember the version of his boyfriend that he left behind in their smashed-up car in the middle of an intersection.

"I don't know," Niall offers unhelpfully. "Maybe he just doesn't want you to think any less of him for it."

And Harry hates that excuse, _hates_ it, because the only thing that has him thinking less of Travis isn't the fact that he fought with his parents, isn't the fact that his financial situation wasn't the best, isn't that he ran away from home and quit his football team or that he doesn't want to raise kids of his own, that he's embarrassed about hooking up with his best friend, or that he doesn't want to get married - it's that he thought that telling Harry these things might make him fall out of love.

Travis' past isn't half of him. It doesn't define him, doesn't get to dictate the rest of his life or how Harry views him. But this, this entire unravelling of all of the things Harry's never heard, out of Travis' careful control, out of Harry's control... this feels like someone's poisoned the water.

\---

He's in the shower this time.

It's late, it's after work, after a day of trying to balance on the edge of a wire, trying to remain upright, trying to just fucking _hold on_ when his world keeps threatening to throw him off course, and he's just stepped under the lukewarm spray when the bathroom door clicks open and the sound of Louis' voice nearly scares him to death.

"Fucking hell, Lou," he swears, clutching his shampoo bottle to his rapidly beating heart and resting his forehead against the tiles. God, he feels sick. "You can't just _do_ that."

"Sorry," Louis apologizes, and at least he sounds sober this time. "Can we talk? I was out looking at more flats after you went to work and then I met up with Liam and his mates for dinner, and the whole time you were gone, I honestly couldn't stop thinking about how shit I must have made you feel today."

"Do we have to do this while I'm in the shower?" Harry asks. He's naked. The water's cold. He'd make it warmer but he doesn't want to drive up the hot water bill. He's also not exactly in the mood to keep going on about this.

"Well I came home and you were in here," Louis says as if that's reason enough for this to make sense.

"It can't wait?"

"I'm supposed to call someone in a bit. I didn't want you to go to sleep before I could say something."

Harry rolls his eyes, picks his head up, blinks the water off his eyelashes. "By ' _someone,'_ do you mean Adrian?"

He hears Louis let out a great sigh on the other side of the curtain, audible even over the sound of the droplets thundering against the shower base.

"Yes."

"Are you going to have phone sex?"

"Are you always such a perv?" Louis counters.

"You're the one who keeps walking in on me while I'm naked," Harry points out as he steps back under the spray. "Speaking of which, do you mind if I keep showering? Or do you need me to stop? I don't want to waste water."

"Go right ahead," Louis tells him, and Harry hears the toilet cover clunk shut, presumably so Louis can take a seat while they chat. "For the record, you might be naked, but it's not like I'm looking."

"Noted," Harry says and pops the shampoo bottle open, too tired to be self-conscious about this entire thing.

"Anyway," Louis goes on, "I feel like I sort of screwed everything up today."

"Yeah?" Harry huffs before shaking his head mid-sudsing, and pausing to remind himself that it isn't Louis' fault.

"I mean, even just that response sounds like you're annoyed with me."

Harry sighs. "I'm... I'm not annoyed. Sorry. I'm not mad at you."

"But you have every right to be," Louis concedes, voice soft, the sound of it just barely trickling in over the rush of the water. "You're allowed to be short with me. I basically confirmed for you in just about the worst way possible that your boyfriend's been keeping things from you. And not, like, small things. Like, these are important things that he should have told you. I feel weird even staying here with you now, knowing you didn't know about my history with Trav."

Harry shuts his eyes and takes a slow breath, fingers tangled in his shampooed hair, hands folded atop his head. "You said it never meant anything."

"That doesn't mean it's not fucking weird."

"What's weird," Harry says, "is that Travis couldn't tell me. It has nothing to do with you. I'm- I'm glad you told me about it. All of it."

He is. At least, he thinks he is. Underneath all of the pain and the confusion swirling around his brain like a deadly cocktail, he thinks he's glad he knows. It must be for the better. This crushing ache in his chest, this feeling like his ribs might crack open or implode or get sucked into the void that's been torn straight through his heart - this all must be worth something. The truth, perhaps? Is the truth worth feeling like this?

"I love Travis," Louis says then, and there's a split second where Harry's breath catches and his world jerks a little, but then Louis hurries to clarify, "as a friend. As a friend, Harry, Jesus, I could hear your heart stop from here."

"I've heard worse today," Harry manages a strained laugh.

"I'm surprised you haven't hit me yet."

"I'm not a violent person."

"Thank god," Louis says before continuing where he'd left off, as Harry starts rinsing his hair out. "Anyway, I love Trav. He's my best mate. Despite what you might think, I'm not taking his side on this. I don't care how private he wants to be or how difficult it might be for him to talk about some of those things we talked about today. You're his boyfriend. You've been together for three years. Relationships aren't built around locked doors and lies."

"I know," Harry says tiredly.

"He shouldn't have left you out like this."

Harry doesn't want to cry again. He takes another deep breath. "I know."

"You'll be alright," Louis says, and it helps, even just a little. "You're allowed to be angry with him. _I'm_ angry with him on your behalf. But that doesn't mean you have to stop loving him."

And Harry knows this, too. He does. He's just... so tired. Emotionally drained. Wrung out. He just wants to stop feeling so much, too much, his heart stretched to every point along the emotional spectrum like an overloaded rubber band, ready to snap straight in half.

"Is that all?" he asks when he realizes he doesn't have anything else to say on the matter. He just doesn't want to talk about his relationship anymore tonight.

"I, um, I think I might have found a flat to move into," Louis tells him. "It's about halfway between here and Travis' hospital."

Harry grabs the bar of soap.

"Is that where you decided to work?"

It's quiet in the bathroom for a moment as he stands there, soap in hand, silent as can be with the shower still running, Harry's skin almost comfortable with the lukewarm water, no longer dotted with goosebumps. He waits for Louis to answer.

"I haven't accepted yet," Louis says, "but it would make sense."

"Because Travis is there?" Harry asks because he's pretty sure that's the only thing drawing Louis to that hospital.

"No, not just that," Louis insists despite Harry's assumption. "I'm already familiar with the building. I've spoken to some of the nurses there and they all like it. It's on this side of London, where all my friends are."

"And Travis is there."

"Well," Louis sighs, "yeah, Travis is there. I can visit him before or after work. I won't have to make any special trips to see him. I'll save time and energy working in the same hospital as him instead of running around the city."

"And what if he wakes up in a week?" Harry challenges absently as he scrubs his skin clean. "You're going to be stuck in that hospital without him."

"Harry," Louis starts, but he doesn't bother finishing what they both know he was going to say. _He's not going to wake up in a week._ Harry is well aware of that, but that's not going to stop him from making Louis consider it.

"As someone who now has to live paycheck to paycheck, don't let your decision come down to which hospital your friend is in. If someone's paying more, go there," Harry says.

"You sound like Trav," Louis comments. "And no one's offering a significant enough amount more for me to want to go someplace else."

"So you're going to accept the job?"

"In the morning," Louis says. "I'll probably take the flat, too. If they'll have me."

"And then you'll be all set," Harry says, placing the soap back on the shelf and letting the water wash it from his body. "You'll have done what you came here to do."

"Yup," Louis agrees. "I'll be out of your hair before you know it."

It's been almost three weeks. They haven't been the three weeks either of them imagined they'd be, but Harry has a feeling he'd be much worse off if Louis hadn't been there with him the entire time. He's not sure what it's going to be like once Louis leaves, but it's not something he wants to dwell on either.

"I'm not mad at you for today," he reiterates because he doesn't want Louis to keep beating himself up over it. "I promise you, I'm not mad."

"Thanks," Louis says, sounding reluctant to accept it as the truth. He doesn't try to argue though. He just lets out another heavy breath, one of relief, one that says he's as tired as Harry is of dealing with all of this, and it sounds final, it sounds like the end of the conversation.

He leaves it at that. He leaves Harry in silence to finish rinsing off. He leaves him with nothing but his thoughts again, the thoughts he can't quite seem to shut off, this vision of Travis in his head that he can't quite seem to line up with the Travis he knows, and it all just weighs down on him. It's like a constant pressure, squeezing at his lungs, his skin, his body. He's tired. He aches. He doesn't know how he's going to make it through the rest of this on his own.

He shuts the water off, and immediately, without thinking, pulls back the shower curtain, taking one step out to reach for his towel.

He freezes.

Louis hasn't left the bathroom. Louis is still perched on the toilet cover, legs crossed, phone lit up in his hands, eyes going wide as he blinks at Harry in shock.

"Oh my god." He drops his eyes as fast as he can back to his phone, one hand coming up to shield his view as Harry hastens to cover himself with just his hands. "Why would you-?"

"I thought you had left!" Harry exclaims as he scurries across the room to snatch his towel from the rack, face already heating up. "Why are you still here?"

"What do you mean why am I still here? We were having a conversation!"

Harry wraps the towel around his waist, mortified. "You hadn't said anything in a while, I figured we were finished talking and you'd gone back out!"

"Why didn't you check?"

"Why didn't you leave?"

"I forgot," Louis says. He parts his fingers just enough to see that it's safe for him to remove his hand from over his eyes. It is. "Jesus, warn a guy next time. I didn't need to know what was under all that." He motions at Harry's towel, eyes drifting up and down his nearly naked body.

Harry flips him off. "Go call your boyfriend."

"Not my boyfriend," Louis insists as he clumsily untangles his legs and gets up from the toilet. "I'm going to have that image burned into my brain for the next week. Thanks."

"Maybe if you stopped inserting yourself into my private bath time, it wouldn't have happened."

"Maybe you should lock the door next time."

"I hope you enjoyed your eye-full."

"It was thrilling," Louis snorts, rolling his eyes as he slips past Harry on his way out.

Harry doesn't respond, just ties his towel more securely around his waist, feels the heat still alive and burning in his face, hotter than any shower he's had in this flat since he's lived there. He shuts the door without another word, sinks down onto the cold floor and tries to steady his heart. He might not be mad at Louis, but he sure is ready to kill him.

\---

They don't talk about the shower incident and they don't talk about any of the things Travis never told Harry. The week goes on and Harry's thoughts never fully settle. They float and hover in his head, suspended in a murky haze like a snowglobe shaken too hard, particles mixed, buried fears and feelings kicked up like dust, waiting for everything to just stop moving, to sink back into place, to make sense again.

This past month has shaken him too hard.

He needs a fucking break.

He needs his thoughts to rearrange into something he can understand.

He needs clarity.

And he's not getting it.

With Louis' last day approaching, he feels like he's hanging off the edge of a cliff, fingers gripping at the rock, nails scraping through the dirt just to hold on a little bit longer. He's afraid of what's on the other side of this. He's afraid of the inevitable fall. He's afraid that the only thing that's kept him from crashing thus far has been Louis pulling him back, roping him in, telling him everything will be alright over and over again.

He doesn't know what it's going to be like without him, but he's petrified to find out. He's not ready.

They don't talk about that either.

He goes to work and he cleans up the mess in his and Travis' bedroom. He tries to sleep at night, finds himself awake more often than not, forces himself not to wake up Louis and slip in the living room and convince him to watch yet another Netflix rom-com at two in the morning just to take his mind off of everything. He tries not to feel guilty about leaving Louis alone with nothing to do each afternoon, tries not to feel guilty about the camera sitting on the top shelf of his closet, untouched for weeks. He tries not to feel much of anything.

Saturday rolls around, Louis' last Saturday before he goes back to Chicago, and Harry somehow manages to get the afternoon shift at the restaurant.

"Are you up for going out tonight?" Louis asks him before he leaves for work around noon.

"Out where?"

"There's this Halloween thing in the park," Louis explains. "I thought it might be nice to, you know, get out of this place and do something for once."

"Are you saying you don't like watching sad movies with me and eating leftover pizza?" Harry asks. He knows he's been the worst sort of company since Louis has come to visit, knows it must not be easy being cooped up with him every night, tiptoeing around his feelings, trying not to bring up Travis more than necessary these days. He knows Louis came to London expecting more.

"I'm saying I think we both need a night out," Louis tells him wisely. "I've been going from hospital to job interview to hospital ever since I got here, and you've been stuck up in your head so much these past few days, I'm afraid you're going to take up a permanent residence there if I don't pull you out."

Harry doesn't argue. He can't argue.

"It's not a party," Louis promises. "I think it's all family friendly stuff. There's supposed to be food and games and music. I won't even make you wear a costume."

And Harry, who had just been planning on coming home and going to sleep and not talking to anyone for at least twelve hours because he's worried he might crawl out of his skin if he has to be awake and thinking about Travis any longer, agrees to go.

"I get out at seven," he says, picking his keys out of the dish by the door. "You can pick out my costume for me."

"Really?" Louis asks, eyes lighting up with surprise.

Harry just lets out a quiet, tired laugh. "Yeah. Really."

\---

Louis meets him outside the restaurant with a change of clothes, dressed in all black, black skinnies, black Vans, a black hoodie, and wearing a pair of black cat ears.

"A cat?" Harry raises an eyebrow. "That's all you could come up with?"

Louis shrugs. "It was short notice," he says with a small, crooked smile. He doesn't even have whiskers pained on.

Harry peers into the bag Louis had brought him, finds a matching pair of black jeans, the lilac jumper he once stole from Gemma, his boots, a pair of wings, and set of curling antennae.

"And I'm butterfly?" he asks softly, amused.

"To match that thing on your stomach," Louis explains, poking him right where his butterfly tattoo sits between his ribs. Harry catches his wrist and stops him from digging a hole straight into his stomach.

"Thank you," he says. "We're going to look ridiculous. You already do."

"If they have face-painting, promise you'll get yours done to match the wings."

"Only if you get some whiskers," Harry says before he goes back inside to change.

\---

Halloween isn't for another week, but the park is lit up for the night, booths lining the perimeter with signs for hot apple cider, candy floss, giant pretzels, every pumpkin spice flavored thing imaginable. Jack-o-lanterns glow and flicker along the footpath. Fake spiders and bats hang from the lamp posts. Harry's been so busy with everything else recently, he hasn't taken the time to stop and breathe and remember that the world continues to go on without him.

It goes on without Travis.

"How is it almost Halloween already?" he asks quietly, standing at the entrance, trying to figure out what he's managed to accomplish in the past month other than a trip to the hospital every morning.

"Well, there's this thing called _time,"_ Louis says, softly bumping his shoulder into Harry's arm and leaving it there, leaning against him. "It tends to pass."

"Is that what it is?

"Yeah," Louis says with a gentle laugh, trying his best to keep things light. He knows what Harry means, though. Harry can tell. It's not just _how is it almost Halloween?_ It's _how have we gone almost a month without Travis?_ It's _how many more months are we going to go through?_ But Harry doesn't want to talk about him now. He doesn't want to think about him. He's tired of the way his insides twist together every time he does, conflicted, broken, damaged.

"Is that the face painting over there?" he asks, trying to steer Louis away from the entrance.

Louis grabs his arm, fingers bunching in the sleeve of Harry's jumper, still leaning against him as they take a few uncoordinated steps down the jack-o-lantern lit path. "You really want to do that first?"

"I need to complete the costume, don't I?"

Besides, he's not sure he has the appetite for anything sweet just yet. Maybe later. Maybe once Travis has faded to the back of his mind again.

"Does this mean I'm about to get whiskers painted on?" Louis asks, crinkling his nose.

"Yes," Harry says without thinking. "You promised. Besides, I'm not sure why you didn't just draw them on before you left."

"What? With permanent marker?" Louis raises an eyebrow.

"No, with like, eyeliner or something."

"I don't know about you, love," Louis says, "but I don't just carry around black eyeliner wherever I go."

"No?"

"No," Louis shakes his head and walks over with Harry to wait in the queue behind a couple and their two young children.

One of them - the one dressed as a green dinosaur - pokes her head around her parent's legs, tail swinging to the side, spikes on her hood sticking out. Louis nudges Harry to make sure he sees how cute the kid is.

"I think we've stumbled upon a rare dinosaur, Harold," he mock-whispers. "Better watch out. I hear they like to eat cats and butterflies for breakfast."

The little kid lets out a tiny giggle before baring her teeth and pretending to take a swipe at them with her clawed gloves, all the while still clinging to her parent's leg.

"See?" Louis chuckles, stepping back and hiding behind Harry. "Absolutely ferocious. We'll be lucky if we make it out of here alive."

The girl's parent just gives her a loving pat on the head to try and coax her away from their leg, but the kid doesn't budge, simply gives Louis another roar before burring her face back in her parent's jeans.

Harry watches it all with his heart caught in his throat. He tries not to think about it, but the thought is already there, having planted itself like a virus in the back of his head as soon as they'd gotten in the queue. Travis would never. He'd never strike up a conversation with a child like that. Harry knows he would never.

He hates that he's still thinking about it. He hates that everything makes him fucking think about it.

As if he can sense Harry slipping away, Louis reaches forward and gives Harry's hand a gentle squeeze. He meets Harry's eyes as Harry tears his gaze from the family in front of them to peer over his shoulder.

"Should we be dinosaurs next year?" Louis asks, trying to reel Harry back in a bit.

All it does is force him to think about a year from now, where he's going to be a year from now, where Travis is going to be a year from now.

He pulls his hand from Louis' and adjusts his antennae with it.

"Sure," he says quietly as he lowers his eyes to the ground. "Dinosaurs are fine."

\---

Twenty minutes later, Harry has completed his transformation into a sparkling butterfly and Louis has officially become a cat. They _do_ look ridiculous. Harry can already tell he's going to have glitter imbedded in his skin for days, a lasting reminder of his willingness to do whatever Louis asks of him. He blames it on his everlasting need to impress Travis' friends even when he feels like he's hit rock bottom. He blames it on his undying need to make sure they like him.

Not that it really matters at the moment.

It feels like nothing matters.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" Harry answers absently as they finish checking their faces out in the cameras on their phones.

"How do I fix this?" Louis asks.

"Fix what?"

"This," Louis says, waving his hands in Harry's general direction. "How do I make you less sad? How do I make you trust your boyfriend again? How do make sure when I leave in two days you're still going to be here when I come back?"

And aren't those the questions of the century?

"I don't know," Harry says, words feeling like nails in his throat.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Louis asks, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves over his fingers. "Because you were doing alright for a while and then I went and ruined it, and all week, you've been lost in your thoughts, and even now, you're at a Halloween festival and there are adorable kids running around in costumes, and loads of sweets and games to play, and your face is painted like a butterfly, and he's still all you're thinking about."

Louis stops them in the path and pulls Harry off to the side, and Harry just... he tries to keep it all together for once in his life.

"I just can't _not_ think about him," he admits, chest aching. "He's fucking everywhere, Lou, and I'm- I don't even know who he is anymore. You have to understand, it's like there's two versions of him in my head now, and I'm just- I'm trying so hard to reconcile one with the other, and it's... it's not fucking working."

"I know." Louis nods, eyes painfully sympathetic. "I know, H. I get it."

"There's my version of Travis," Harry tries to explain anyway. "He's a little rough around the edges and he doesn't like to talk about himself, but he's sweet and he tells me he loves me, and I love him, and I think I _know_ him. And now I have this other version."

"My version," Louis says.

"He's had a crappy childhood," Harry rattles off. "He doesn't tell his parents about the boy he's been dating for three years. He doesn't tell his boyfriend about his parents - turns out he doesn't tell his boyfriend much of anything, and he might not see a permanent future with him."

"Which you don't know for sure."

"No," Harry shrugs, his butterfly wings twitching behind him. "But it only makes sense given the way he's been keeping things from his boyfriend for so long."

"And you can't connect these two people in your head," Louis reiterates. "You can't see them as one complete person."

"I can't," Harry says, defeated. He's been trying for the past few days _,_ but he can't think of the Travis who claims to love him as the same Travis that keeps so much of himself separate from their relationship. "I can't even look at him in the hospital anymore. He's alone and in a fucking coma, and I can't even look at him because I don't know who I'm looking at. How am I supposed to get past that?"

"Stay home?" Louis offers, even if they both know it's weak advice.

"You want me to just leave him in the hospital without any visitors? First his parents abandon him, now me?"

"He doesn't know you're there," Louis reminds him gently, reaching out to touch his arm. He ends up wrapping his fingers around Harry's wrist again and leading him over to an empty bench to sit. "You don't visit him for his sake, remember?" he says. "You visit because you need it for yourself. Maybe... Maybe what you really need is some time away from him to, like, figure out what you want to do."

"What do you mean?" Harry asks, his heart sinking as he pulls his feet onto the bench and hugs his knees to his chest. "What is there to figure out? He's in a coma. What is there to do?"

"It's almost been a month," Louis says weakly. "At this rate, he might... he might never wake up, Harry. You don't have to stick around and wait for him if your heart isn't in it."

Harry shakes his head, his skin prickling, growing warmer as his pulse quickens.

"He's still my boyfriend."

"And the way you're talking about him makes me think you're not so sure of that," Louis says with a sad shrug.

Harry opens his mouth to argue, catches sight of the look on Louis' face, and firmly shuts it again. He's not even going to dignify that with a proper response. Of course Travis is still his boyfriend. Harry just... he's just not sure who his boyfriend is anymore.

"I'm not breaking up with him over something like this," is all he says. Can you even break up with someone without the other half being awake for it?

"Give him time," Louis says as a group of young teenagers pass, each of them chomping into candied apples, bags of goodies swinging off their arms. "Let everything settle, lay off the hospital visits, treat this as if it were a real argument that Travis were awake for. Pretend you've turned off your phone and won't answer his calls. Pretend you've kicked him out for a few days and he's gone to sleep with Liam for the moment. Just give yourself some breathing room, H. You'll be alright."

That's what everyone's been telling him for the past month, and he's still not ready to believe it.

"Am I a terrible person for thinking if he had died, I'd at least be able to move on?" Harry hugs his arms tighter around his knees, _feels_ like a terrible person.

"Only if you wish he _had_ died," Louis says without judgement.

"I don't," Harry says. He picks at a loose bit of yarn on the sleeve of his jumper. "I just hate that he's neither here nor there."

"I think you'd hate it much more if he were dead."

"Yeah," Harry acknowledges. "I would."

They sit there for a moment in silence, watching the crowd, the kids trying to pick up pumpkins bigger than their own bodies, a toddler dressed as a unicorn waddling along with her parents, a dog with a cape tied to its back. The orange fairy lights and the fake, flickering candles leave everything in an orange glow. Harry can't help feeling like he's ruined another night.

"Would you like to try the ring-toss with me?" he asks in an attempt to not be a miserable human being for at least five minutes.

Louis grins, soft and crooked and sweet as always. "Are you going to win me a stuffed bear, Styles?"

The chain around Harry's heart cranks a bit tighter. _Styles_ was Travis' thing. He doesn't tell Louis off for it, doesn't ask him not to call him by his last name. Instead, he untangles his arms from around his legs and rises from the bench.

"Only if you pay for any additional rounds," he says, and Louis laughs quietly but nods all the same.

"Sure," he says. "Whatever you want."

\---

It only takes three rounds for Harry to get lucky and land all three rings around the bottlenecks at the far end of the booth. It only takes Louis re-gifting his stuffed dog back to Harry for Harry to agree to a walk through the haunted maze. And it only takes Harry nearly crushing Louis' fingers in the death-grip he has on Louis' hand as he basically spoons Louis from behind the entire walk through the maze for Louis to realize that Harry isn't cut out for Halloween.

"I _told_ you I can't handle this type of shit," Harry hisses in Louis' ear as they round what Harry can only hope is the last corner.

Louis pinches his thumb but holds tighter when Harry swears again and tires to yank his hand away.

"Watch your mouth, H," he chides. "There are children in here."

"Are there?" Harry asks, not daring to turn around and look. "Because if there are, I'd like a word with their parents."

"Just because you're afraid of your own shadow doesn't mean we all-"

_"Blaaaarrrrrghhhh!"_

Harry's soul just about leaves his body as the fourth festival worker dressed as a zombie comes jumping out at them. His blood pressure spikes, he almost bites his tongue off, his insides threaten to exist through his arse again, and Louis once more has the nerve to laugh at him when Harry plasters himself to his back and grips at his shoulders, the stuffed dog tucked under his arm.

"Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this," Harry chants over Louis' shoulder as the zombie scurries past them through the rest of the maze. "Fuck all of these people. Fuck Halloween. Fuck this fucking maze."

"You're so fucking dramatic," Louis just laughs, spinning around and taking hold of Harry's wrists, Harry's hands balled too tightly to hold.

Harry could punch him. He really could.

"Get me out of here," he says instead. "Louis. I swear to god. Get me out of here."

"Why? What are you going to do if I find the way out?" Louis asks, fixing him a loaded look. "Be sad about Travis some more? Have another cry over some cider?"

"You're an arsehole."

"Thanks," Louis deadpans. "Aren't you having even just a little fun?"

"No."

"No?"

"No." Harry stares at him, bewildered. "Are _you?"_

"I am," Louis nods, and then, "I, um. I also might have gotten us lost."

Harry's fists clench where Louis has them held in front of his face. "Define 'lost.'"

"Lost," Louis repeats, "as in I might have to sit on your shoulders to see over the top of this thing and find the exit."

It takes all of Harry's effort to just take a slow, deep breath and not strangle Louis. He uncurls his fists on the exhale, the grip on his wrists loosening until his hands slip through Louis' fingers and fall to his sides.

"I'm going to have to take my wings off, aren't I?" he asks.

"Yes," Louis says. "Probably."

"What if someone jumps around the corner again?" Harry starts slipping the wing straps off his shoulders.

"You try really hard not to drop me."

\---

Harry drops him. Right on his arse. Right as they're rounding the last corner, the end in sight, right as the world's worst, most horrible, awful, fucking horrific demon spawn of a clown pokes its head out and cackles directly in Harry's unsuspecting face.

He jumps, turns away, feels the weight topple off his shoulders, Louis' fingers scrabbling for purchase on whatever parts of him he can grasp at, but it's too late. He hits the ground with a solid _thud_ , the air whooshing from his lungs, their joint-custody stuffed dog landing next to him, Louis' eyes pinching shut.

"Oh, fuck," Harry swears, kneeling at his side at once.

"You dropped me," Louis groans with a wince. "I can't believe you actually dropped me."

"I fucking told you I hate this shit," Harry hisses.

He throws a glance over his shoulder to make sure the clown has moved on, that it isn't hovering to wait for Louis to get up. It isn't. Thank fuck, it isn't.

"Are you alright?" Harry asks, offering Louis his hand to pull him into a seated position. He looks alright. He sounds alright. He's conscious. That's all Harry can really ask for these days.

"Yeah," Louis breathes. "Gonna have a nice bruise on my arse in the morning, but I'll live."

"That's good." Harry nods. "Not the bruise part, but the living. Living is good."

"Living is good," Louis agrees and lets Harry pull him to his feet. He doesn't let go as he rubs at his tailbone with his free hand and does a few quick stretches just to make sure everything's still functional. He doesn't let go, even when they both notice, even when Harry tries to break the connection, even when they surely should have by now. He just keeps holding on.

Harry doesn't know what to do about it.

"Erm," he tries. "Can you...? My hand?"

"No," Louis says firmly, running his thumb over the back of Harry's knuckles.

"No?"

"You're a flight risk now," Louis tells him as they hobble along the last few meters of the maze. "I can't have you running off if something else comes at us before we each the end. Also, it hurts to walk."

"Ah," Harry says. "Sorry."

"Just... go slow."

Harry almost offers to carry Louis the rest of the way out before he realizes that that's what got them into this mess in the first place. So he puts his arm around Louis' waist instead while Louis holds onto their stuffed dog, and he lets Louis lean into his side, a nice, warm weight, a feeling he didn't know he'd been missing, first, for the remainder of the maze, and then, for the entire walk back to his flat.

\---

"Would you like to sleep on the bed tonight?"

"Your bed?"

"You don't have to," Harry backtracks, watching Louis line up his trainers by the door. "I can take the couch, or you can sleep on my side of the bed and I'll sleep on Trav's if it's too weird. I just- I thought with your back hurting, you might want better support."

He already feels like a dick for dropping Louis. He's not going to leave him on the couch after helping him limp his way home.

"Okay," Louis answers quietly after a moment, straightening up to face Harry, one hand still held to his lower back.

Harry should get him some ice.

"You want me to take the couch?" he asks.

"No," Louis says with an easy shake of his head. "You can stay. Only a prick would make someone sleep on a couch like that when there's a perfectly good bed in the next room."

He throws Harry a small, teasing smile, and Harry pouts, pretends to be offended, pretends there's truth to that, even when they both know the real reason Louis hasn't been offered a spot on the bed just yet is because Harry's heart hasn't been ready to give it up until tonight. Letting someone else in his and Travis' bed just feels like a Big Deal. But this is different. This is just Louis, just for the night, just because Harry owes him for the bruises he's sure to have in the morning.

Still, it isn't easy getting settled in on Travis' side of the bed, freshly cleaned face hitting Travis' pillow, surrounded by the scent of him, the memories of him, and having to watch Louis take up the space on the other side. It takes Harry a moment to swallow back whatever it is he's feeling and just let himself relax. It's only one night. It's only Louis. It's just a bed.

"You still have glitter under your eyes," Louis comments quietly after he rolls onto his side to face Harry.

"It's just the natural sparkle of my skin," Harry sighs, doesn't bother trying to rub it away.

"To match the sparkle of your personality."

"Of course."

"Of course," Louis agrees with a soft laugh. His eyes look so blue up close like this, gleaming in the low light coming from Travis' bedside table lamp. They search Harry's face for a moment, trying to read him, tying to get anything from him, before they decidedly give up and settle down where Harry has his hands tucked against his chest. "Feeling any better?" he asks.

Harry adjusts his head on the pillow. "A little," he decides. "Trying not to think about Travis anymore."

"Good," Louis says. He inhales, opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but ends up closing it, teeth digging briefly into his bottom lip before he seals them shut again with a barely noticeable shake of his head.

He wants to talk. He just isn't sure how, and up until now, Harry hasn't tried to pry anything out of him. He's just let Louis be.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Me?" Louis asks, as if Harry could possibly be speaking to someone else.

"Yeah, you."

"I mean, my arse is sore, but I think I'll be fine."

"Okay," Harry nods slowly. "And aside from that? You're okay?"

Louis shifts a bit under the covers, pulls the duvet higher so it almost touches his ears. "I'm getting there," he tells Harry.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No," Louis says, but then he shakes his head, seems to change his mind. "Honestly? I don't think everything's sunk in enough just yet, not all the way at least."

"You've been busy," Harry reminds him. "That's fair."

He's had interviews, a flat to find, had to organize his move back to London, go home to see his family, keep in touch with all of his friends in Chicago, look after Harry. Even when he's sitting still, his mind must be elsewhere.

"It'll probably hit me harder once I leave," Louis says. "Once I'm alone and packing up my shit with no one to talk to and nothing else to think about. It'll hit me then."

"Me too," Harry says, letting his eyelids flutter as sleep draws ever closer. "It'll probably hit me harder when you leave."

\---

 _Harder_ doesn't wait for Louis to leave. _Harder_ is the next morning when Harry wakes from a totally innocent dream about baking brownies to roll over, away from Louis, and realize with a horrifying jolt that the distant, heavy feeling in his groin isn't so distant, that it's pressing incessantly against the front of his shorts, that he's hard, harder than a typical case of morning wood, hard for the first time since the accident, hard enough that he needs to get up and take care of this because it's not about to go away on its own.

"Fuck," he half-exhales, half-groans under his breath as he sits up and adjusts himself, the first touch enough to get his blood flowing faster. Of all the fucking mornings for this to happen.

He blames it all on the bed, on sharing the space together, on having another body heating up the air beside him, on not having rubbed one out in almost a month. His pipes are probably just backed up. That's all. That's exactly what this is.

One glance over his shoulder tells him Louis is still in a deep sleep, lying on his stomach with one knee bent by his side, lips parted as he puffs rhythmic breaths into his pillow, hair tousled from rolling over in the night. He's usually awake already by the time Harry gets up and pads into the living room. Harry thanks the fucking stars he's not awake now.

As quiet as can be, he slips out of the bedroom and lets the bathroom door fall shut behind him. He makes sure to lock it this time, knows he'd be risking every ounce of his dignity if he left it open, knows Louis would have no issue barging in on him given the chance. And then he takes his shirt off, pulls his cock from the front of his shorts, and sinks down the back of the bathroom door until he's sat on the cold tiles, hard dick held between his fingers, feeling seventy-six shades of sorry for himself that his sex life has boiled down to this.

Oh, god.

He's not even in the mood for a wank. He's not even turned on. This is definitely a biological response, not a psychological one. Maybe he'll just wait for it to go down. It has to go down eventually, right? _Right?_

He sighs, shuts his eyes, tilts his head back against the door, and starts teasing himself. It's just his fingertips at first, slow, a careful touch, running down his length towards the base, his foreskin just barely pulling back before dragging up again.

It doesn't feel awful. He doesn't know why he'd expected it to feel awful.

Guilt, probably. Guilt, and unease, and the fact that he's been so wrapped up in his own heartache for the past month that the thought of taking time for himself and making himself feel good in the middle of everything had seemed like the wrong thing to do. As if someone might ask him why he gets to jerk off and have all the fun while his boyfriend suffers in the hospital.

As if having a sad, miserable wank on his bathroom floor could be considered fun.

Christ, what is he even doing?

Eyes fluttering open, he pauses, fingers just grazing over the head, lifting, hovering, hesitating.

No, it's fine. He huffs out a frustrated breath, gives his head a small shake. He can do this. He'll jerk himself off and clean up, no big deal, no one has to know. He'll get it out of his system and then he'll be fine and broken-hearted and go back to involuntary abstinence all over again.

He curls his fingers around the head of his cock, squeezes, lets his hand slide down all the way to the base, his pink tip exposed and just starting to get wet at the slit. He thumbs at it, spreads the moisture over the rest of the tip, has to bite his bottom lip to keep from moaning deep in the back of his throat. Because it does feel good. It feels... really good.

This might be the longest he's gone without an orgasm since he first found out what an orgasm was.

He tries to just focus on the feeling of it as he starts to really work his cock. His hand remains steady, keeping that slow, constant pace. He doesn't close his eyes, doesn't stop watching, just forces himself to take in the sight of his dick fucking into the circle of his fingers and tries get off on that.

If he doesn't, his mind starts to wander, and the only thing it knows to wander to is Travis, sex with Travis, Travis touching him like this, Travis' hands on him like this, and he doesn't want to think about Travis. He's pissed at Travis. He's hurt because of Travis. Travis isn't getting in on any of this.

Besides, what special sort of arsehole jerks off to fantasies of their boyfriend while their boyfriend is in an indefinite coma?

Not Harry, that's for fucking sure.

He tightens his grip, chest heavy, all of his determination set on chasing that slow burn of pleasure as it builds in his groin and travels up the rest of his body.

He wants this.

It's too good not to want.

As he starts to work his cock harder, faster, he reaches down with his left hand for his balls, pulled high and tight, and gently plays with them, cups them in his palm, runs his thumb up the seam, adds to the sensation. He's getting closer, had known it would be a quick one from the start, his body just waiting for him to get into it and get it over with. It only takes his fingers trailing lower, past his balls, back towards his hole, for things to really heat up.

He bends his knees, teases the pads of his first two fingers over the tight ring of muscle down there, presses down just enough to get his pulse rising, his pleasure spiking, but not enough to actually slip in. Like flipping a switch, he speeds up the rhythm of his hand, doubling his efforts as his hole clenches beneath his fingertips, aching for something, anything. He's just not ready for that yet, can barely stomach giving himself a handjob at the moment, is only going through with it because his body is begging for it.

His orgasm builds inside of him, coiling tighter and tighter in his abdomen like a hot wire compressed into a spring, anticipating release.

"Shit," Harry hisses, chest rising and falling, shoulders digging into the wood of the door as he cants his hips up to meet his fist. He fucks into it, watches the tip, darker and wetter than ever, disappear and reappear through the ring of his fingers, cock so hard it's started curving back towards his belly.

When he finally comes, it's like a weight falls from his chest. He swallows the groan at the back of his throat, pinches his eyes shut, and pumps his cock through it, stripes of come hitting high on his stomach, the rest of it dribbling over the back of his hand.

He slumps against the door feeling more sated, more satisfied than he has in weeks, his cock falling to rest in the crease of his hip, heart still trying to slow down beneath his ribs. He glances down at the mess he's made, knows he should clean up and get back into bed, but he's exhausted, too exhausted to move himself off the floor, an exhaustion that's been sitting on his shoulders and clouding his head for the past month, finally reaching its peak.

"Everything alright in there?"

Harry jumps, sits up, leans away from the door and buries his face in his clean hand, mortified once again. At least the door is locked. At least he was smart enough to do that.

He coughs to clear his throat, tries to pretend there isn't come drying on his stomach.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Lou," he calls back through the door, knows he sounds more frantic than someone pretending he hasn't just bust a nut should sound. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay," Louis says. "Did you have a nice wank?"

Harry could actually die.

"When do you go back to Chicago?" he groans.

"Oh, Harry," Louis says, and Harry can hear his shit-eating grin in just three syllables. "You still have twenty-four hours of me, love."

Harry sighs, tucks his now thoroughly soft dick back into his shorts and goes to wash up at the sink.

"Wonderful."

\---

Harry has to work that night, so in truth, he really only has about eight waking hours left to spend with Louis, and they spend it being complete tourists in Harry's own city. They grab a coffee and a muffin each from the cafe downstairs before they take the tube over to Trafalgar Square and eat breakfast while sitting on one of the fountain's walls. Louis takes pictures, tries to coax the photographer out of Harry by shoving his phone in Harry's hand and asking for a photo of himself with one of the Lion statues, jokingly telling him to make sure he gets all the best angles and the right lighting. Harry just rolls his eyes, snaps the picture like any normal human would, gives him the finger, and pulls him away, down the road towards the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

And it's liberating, being outside in the fresh air, doing things, seeing things that aren't the four walls of Travis' hospital room. It's a relief to not have to sit at Travis' bedside and try to figure out what to say when Travis can't even hear it, when there's nothing left to say. It's a relief to not have to wade through his feelings, try to make sense of them, weigh the good versus the bad and wonder what it means for them when the scale tips in a way that leaves Harry's heart feeling like someone's trying to pull it apart with their bare hands.

Because that's what it feels like. It feels like all of these newfound revelations, all the truth coming to the surface, all of everything has him being split in half, pulled in two directions, stretched and yanked at like a rubber band, and all of his fibers are splitting like hairs, like strings on a guitar plucked too hard. His heart already has enough holes in it, enough bruises, bleeding, damage. He's not ready to give half of it up just yet.

He can't imagine giving half of it up.

So he needs today. He needs one last day with Louis, posing next to Big Ben, refusing to pay _that much_ for a ride around the London Eye, eating ice cream in St. James's Park, and waiting outside Buckingham Palace as if the Queen might appear at any given moment, because he knows it's all going to come crashing back down on him when Louis goes to the airport in the morning, gets on that plane, and leaves.

"Hey," Louis says as they say their goodbyes to the Wellington Arch and get ready to head back home. "Promise me when I get back, we'll finish this tour together."

Harry huffs quietly, throws a sideways glance at Louis as they cross the street. "Am I supposed to believe you're going to want to see this face again after spending an entire month with it?"

"Yes," Louis answers easily. "It's a good face," he shrugs. "Easy on the eyes. Smile with a dimple. Nose is a bit big, but I try to look past that."

"Ouch."

"Oh, come on," Louis teases, bumping Harry's arm with his elbow. "Your face is fine, Harry. You're cute. Handsome, even. But that's only half of why I'd want to keep hanging out with you after this."

"Is the other half my charming disposition?" Harry drawls, knowing he's been anything but charming lately.

"That and your positive outlook on life," Louis says, giving Harry's cheek a sarcastic little pat. He stops then, just outside the entrance to the underground, and shakes his head. "If I'm being serious for a minute, H, I like you. There's a dark cloud hanging over your head most days, but I get that. I don't mind that. I mean, there's one over my head just like it, so who am I to judge?"

"Is there?" Harry has to ask. He lifts his eyes to search above Louis' head and earns himself a light kick in the shin.

"It's there," Louis sighs. "You know it's there. This is all just a cool, composed facade." He waves a hand around his face, and Harry can't hold back a laugh.

"M'not sure 'cool' is the word you're looking for, but go on."

"Anyway," Louis rolls his eyes, "what I was going to say, was I know you're going through shit, and you're allowed to be moody and sad, and that's fine-"

"Thanks."

"-But on the days when you're feeling alright, and whenever you let yourself stop thinking about Travis," Louis continues, "and _I_ stop thinking about Travis, and I get to see a glimpse of the person you were before all of this - you're pretty alright. I think we'd make good friends even without Travis bringing us together."

"That's what Niall said," Harry tells him, recalling their conversation only a week ago.

"You talk to Niall about me a lot?"

"Oh, all the time."

"As it should be," Louis smirks, and Harry can't help but let the deadpan look on his own face break into a crooked smile.

"No, I mean he heard me talking to you on the phone when you called from Doncaster," he explains.

"When you thought I was getting sick of you?"

"Yeah," Harry nods. "He tried to tell me you weren't, that you and I would make good friends."

"Smart lad, that Niall."

"He likes you too," Harry says. "If that counts for anything."

"It does," Louis replies. "Means I'll have at least two friends in London when I move back. Three if you decide you'll keep me around."

"Might do," is all Harry says with a soft smile before tugging open the door to the underground and pulling his card out to let himself through the gates.

Louis follows after him, his footsteps sounding down the staircase, almost in sync with Harry's but not quite. As they reach the bottom, Harry slows to let him catch up, throwing a glance in his direction once he appears at his side, meeting his quiet gaze, the usual light in his eyes subdued underground.

"Hey," he says as he realizes he never truly responded to Louis' original request.

 _"Hey_ what?"

"When you get back," Harry says, "I promise we'll finish this tour."

"Yeah?" Louis checks, very obviously struggling not to look too satisfied. "Gonna take me over to the Tower of London? Let me see where they cut off all the heads?"

Harry pauses. "Does it cost money?"

"Everything costs money, Harry."

"Then I'll wave to you from outside."

"Deal," Louis says.

"Deal."

\---

He lets Louis sleep in his bed again that night, too tired from work to think about it when he comes home from the restaurant to find Louis looking a bit worse for the wear after his final visit with Travis. It's just one more night. It's not like it means anything.

They fall asleep together, and Harry wakes up alone. There's a note stuck to his phone, but other than that, no sign that Louis had ever even been in the bedroom, his side of the bed already made, pillow straightened, sheets tucked under the mattress.

_Gone downstairs for coffee. Text me if you want anything. x_

Harry gets up, throws on the first pair of faded blue jeans he finds and pulls an old hoodie out of his closet.

He finds Louis sitting by the cafe window, scrolling through a news article on his phone, a half eaten croissant flaking onto his plate.

"Ready to go?"

Louis picks his head up, eyes still puffy from sleep, hair feathery, unstyled. He looks surprised to see Harry there.

"Hi," he says, voice soft in the early morning. "Thought you were going to sleep in."

"I don't sleep much these days," Harry shrugs, wrapping his fingers around the wire back of the seat opposite Louis. "In case you haven't noticed."

"Yeah, you should work on that," Louis says. He nods for Harry to join him, kicks at the seat of the chair to push it out an inch.

Harry obliges. The chair legs squeal against the tiled floor as he slides it out, breaking the quiet of the cafe and causing a head or two to turn. It's still early, all of the patrons keeping to themselves, just the soft clinking of silverware on ceramic and the occasional rustling of a morning paper to be heard over the noises coming from the kitchen. Harry gingerly perches himself on the edge of the wooden seat, arms folded on the table, feeling like he has a million things to say, but unable to figure out where to start.

"Nervous?" Louis has the audacity to ask when _he's_ the one getting ready to fly back to the city he's called home for four years only to leave it for good. He's the one who has to pack up his life, start a new job, make new friends, meet new people. Harry isn't doing any of that. All Harry has to do is wake up every morning and try to live his life like normal.

"I'm dreading the next two weeks," he admits despite all of that, gripping his elbows, shoulders tensed up to his ears. God, is he dreading it.

Louis takes each of his hands, unfolds his arms one by one and holds onto his fingers across the table. His hands are soft, warm, always warmer than Harry's.

"Listen, mate, I'm not going to sugar-coat this because you deserve more than that," he says, keeping his voice low but firm as he squeezes at Harry's fingers. "I know it's going to be tough on your own. I know you know that. You're going to hit some lows that might make you think it can't possibly ever get better again, but I promise you, I _promise_ you, H, you'll make it through this."

Harry exhales a heavy breath, stares down at their hands.

"I know," he mumbles, even if the concept of being okay again seems entirely foreign lately. He wants to believe it must be true. Because if it isn't true, if there's nothing for him at the end of this tunnel, then what's the point of all this? Why suffer through this hell if there's no getting out?

"Don't be afraid to text me while I'm gone," Louis says, letting Harry's hands come to rest on the table. "Call me whenever you need to talk. Go out for drinks with Niall. Check in on Liam. Don't cut yourself off from everyone just because I'm not here to drag your arse around wherever I go."

"Okay," Harry nods.

"Take time for yourself," Louis tells him. "Take a break from the daily hospital visits. Do your bath thing. Maybe take that camera of yours out, see what happens? And Harry, just try... _try_ not to let everything I told you about Travis ruin what you had with him," Louis finishes. "He's not a bad person. I know he loves you, and I would hate for you to take anything I told you to heart and believe otherwise."

Harry doesn't say anything.

He doesn't think Travis is a bad person. He knows some part of Travis must have loved him in some way or another. But that isn't the problem, and Louis knows that.

So Harry stays quiet on the subject because arguing about it won't take the two images of Travis in his head and combine them into one. Arguing won't change the fact that Travis kept him out of important parts of his life. Arguing won't wake Travis up.

"When do you come back?" he asks instead.

"Friday after next," Louis says, and if he's frustrated with Harry's lack of a response, he doesn't show it. "A little less than two weeks."

Harry keeps having to remind himself that he won't be alone for that long. He'll have Niall, his coworkers, Liam, even his family if it comes down to that. And he keeps having to remind himself it won't be the same when Louis returns. They won't be living together anymore. Louis will have a job and start making his own friends. He'll have his own new life.

And Harry just has to learn how to live his again. He hasn't been alone in three years.

"What time are you leaving?"

"Why? Starting to miss me already?" Louis teases before he checks the time on his phone. Harry watches as the line of his jaw tense, his lips pouting slightly. "I, um. Actually, I should probably get my stuff from upstairs," he says. "My ride should be here in a few minutes. You're sure you don't want to come?"

"And drive through the same intersection where Trav had his head smashed in?" Harry fixes him a hard look. "I'm alright staying here, thanks."

"I figured," Louis shrugs. "Just thought I'd ask again anyway."

He takes a final bite of his croissant, offers the rest to Harry, and downs whatever is left of his coffee.

It's cold enough outside that Harry manages to catch sight of his own breath as they cross between the cafe and the door leading to his flat. In a few days it'll be November. The leaves will be all but gone from the trees, the grass in the park will have frost on it in the mornings, the sky will turn grey and stay that way until spring finds them once more.

The doctors keep saying that most coma patients with conditions similar to Travis tend to wake between two and four weeks after the initial accident, if they wake at all. Harry's made sure not to keep his hopes up. If he doesn't keep his hopes up, he can't be crushed when nothing changes, when Travis doesn't wake, when he continues not to wake.

But that window is closing. Time is moving faster than he wants it to. They'll go through Christmas and roll into the new year, and Harry will have his twenty-seventh birthday, and the sun will come back, the flowers will bloom, the trees will blossom, and everything will go on whether or not Travis is conscious for it.

There's nothing Harry can do about it. If he's learned anything in the past month, it's that nothing he thinks, says, does, or feels can bring Travis back. Time might be fighting against them, but it's also the only thing that can bring any change.

Louis' suitcase is already zipped up and standing at the end of the couch, ready to go when they unlock the flat together for the last time. He does one final sweep of the living room and bathroom to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, and then they trudge back downstairs to wait by the curb.

"You'll call me if anything changes with him?" Louis checks, fingers fumbling with his pack of cigarettes as he goes for one last smoke. He ends up dropping his lighter on the floor, swearing quietly under his breath as it rolls towards Harry's feet.

Harry picks it up, passes it back, their fingers brushing.

"I'll call you," he promises.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let anything happen to him," Louis says, and Harry knows, then and there, that the worst part of the next two weeks for Louis won't be leaving his Chicago friends, his job, packing up and moving to a new city. It'll be flying away from his best friend and not knowing whether or not he'll be there when he returns.

"I won't let anything happen," Harry says. He can't promise it, but he can try.

Louis checks his phone again as he takes a drag. He exhales in a soft puff of smoke. "The driver's two streets away," he notes, "and I'm- honestly Harry, I'm kind of fucking terrified to leave."

He drops his barely smoked cigarette on the floor, stamps it out, and blinks at Harry, not with expectation or anticipation, but with a look in his eyes that says he's feeling everything Harry is, that he gets it, that they're two boys in the same sinking boat, and neither of them are sure if they know how to swim.

"You're supposed to tell me we'll be okay," Harry says with a sad, quiet laugh as he gently pulls Louis in for a final hug. Louis falls into him easily, warm and pliant, molding against Harry's body until there's very little space left between them.

"I'm sorry," Louis sighs into his neck, arms wrapped around his waist. "I burned through the last of my optimism five minutes ago."

"Wasted it all on telling me to take a bath?" Harry murmurs.

"I'm going to miss this."

"I'll still be here in two weeks."

"I know," Louis sighs, still holding on. "Thanks for letting me crash your life for a bit."

Harry honestly doesn't know what he would have done without him, even just that first day at the hospital. He'd have been so far gone by now, he doesn't want to think about it. So he just squeezes Louis a little harder before letting him slip from his arms.

"Thanks for everything," he says, and he means it. He means it with all of his bruised and beaten heart.

Louis shrugs like it's been no big deal. As he bends to pick his cigarette off the ground to throw in a bin, his ride pulls up in front of them.

"I guess this is it, then," he says, hesitant to grab his suitcase.

Harry takes a deep breath, knows he has to let Louis go. "Looks like it is."

"I'll see you soon?"

"Two weeks," Harry says with a small nod as the boot of the car pops open and the driver steps out to load Louis' luggage.

Louis opens the back door.

"Take care of yourself, Styles," he says.

Harry doesn't tell him not to call him _Styles._ He just helps him close the door, gives a small wave through the window, turns to go inside, and doesn't look back.

The stairs creak beneath his feet as he climbs back up to his flat, each step echoing like a bullet off the walls. It's still relatively early, his upstairs neighbors probably having their breakfast, getting ready for work. It takes him a few tries to get his key into the lock, the handle rattling around, screws a bit loose with age. The squeal the door lets out as it swings inward on its hinges is enough to wake everyone on his street. It all just seems so much louder when he's alone.

As he steps inside, he barely acknowledges Travis' boots still lined up on the rug, the hoodie still hanging from one of the coat hooks. Travis' coffee mug has been long gone, thrown in the sink, washed, and tucked into the back of the cupboard by Harry a few weeks ago, but now there's a paper cup sitting in its place. There's a set of keys back in the bowl beside it.

They're Travis' keys. It's Louis' coffee cup from breakfast.

Harry goes to pick it up, throw it out in the kitchen, but his hand only makes it halfway before he retracts it, runs his fingers through his hair instead.

He'll get it later.

Chest growing tighter with each breath he takes, he kicks off his trainers and pads into the living room. Aside from the cup by the door, everything else looks spotless. All of the pillows and extra blankets Louis had been using have already been stashed back in the closet. Their takeaway containers from late the night before have been cleaned up or put back in the fridge. There aren't even any crumbs on the table that need sweeping.

Harry sits down in the middle of his couch and stares at the black screen of the television, ears ringing in the silence.

They're gone. Travis is gone. Louis is gone. And for the first time in the month since Travis blinked out of consciousness with his face in Harry's hands, Harry can't help but feel the crushing weight on his heart of being left truly and utterly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://anylessreal.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Fic post [here](http://anylessreal.tumblr.com/post/178161636075/twist-and-then-collide-part-2-of-4).


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am forever sorry about how LONG this took to write, but I did warn you that I was a slow writer, and yet you all wanted a WIP anyway. Truth be told I probably would have never gotten this far if I hadn't posted that first part and let the guilt of not finishing this story force me to write this next bit.
> 
> **Warnings** : Mentions of surgery, breathing problems, heart problems, complications that can come from being in a coma. Minor anxiety struggles.
> 
> Please let me know if I should rephrase any of these or add any. Again, I can be found [here](http://anylessreal.tumblr.com/) and am more than willing to answer any questions you might have before reading.
> 
> Thanks for waiting so patiently and for all of your encouragement over the past few months!

The first day of November marks one month since the accident and six days since Louis' flight back to Chicago. It brings with it a drop in temperature, another set of bills, a hangover from spending Halloween night drinking cheap shots of vodka at Abby's flat, and it brings rain. It brings a fuck ton of rain.

"This umbrella is completely useless," Harry mutters, trying to angle the damn thing against the wind, struggling to keep it steady. "I might as well not even have one. For fuck's sake, Niall, it's not doing anything to keep me dry. It's not even- _Fuck."_

The umbrella flips inside-out and he's hit in the face with a blast of cold wind and rain.

"Give me that," Niall sighs, voice muffled slightly by having half of his face tucked into the zip of his raincoat. He pulls his hands from his pockets and snatches the umbrella from Harry's frozen-fingered grip.

"What a cheap piece of crap," Harry says, pulling his coat tighter.

He watches as Niall goes to force the umbrella back to its normal shape, feels his heart sink when one of the spokes slices through the fabric.

"Whoops."

"Niall."

"At least we're almost to the station."

"Niall."

"It's not even raining that hard."

"Niall," Harry says one last time, blinking at the broken umbrella in horror as the rain rolls off his eyelashes and down the slope of his nose. "We're in the middle of a Noah's Ark-style flood. My shower doesn't even get me this wet. It's like a bloody monsoon out here and you've just _broken_ my umbrella."

He could kill him.

"You literally just said you might as well not have one," Niall argues as he folds the umbrella up as best as he can and throws it in the nearest bin with a loud thud that has Harry's insides turning to ice.

Because that wasn't his umbrella. That was Travis' umbrella. That was the one he'd left by the entrance to their flat, the one Harry had quickly grabbed on his way out the door that morning because he'd left his own umbrella at the hospital a week ago, and he hasn't been back to retrieve it since.

"Why did you do that?" he exhales, panic hitting him harder than the rain.

"Do what?" Niall frowns, confusion clear in his voice. He follows Harry's frazzled gaze down to the bin, brow only furrowing deeper. "You wanted to keep that? You just called it a 'cheap piece of crap.'"

"Yes," Harry says before he shakes his head, changes his mind, realizes how pathetic he must sound. "No. No, I know. I don't. I just-"

He shakes his head again, rain dripping off the ends of his hair, running down the back of his neck and soaking his work clothes. He takes a breath, exhales loud enough for Niall to hear, frustrated with himself.

"Do you want me to get it for you?" Niall backtracks, confused. He starts rolling up his sleeves. "I'm not sure you can fix it, but if you want to try, be my guest. I'll get it back for you."

"No, I'm... I'm fine," Harry insists. He is. He's fine. It's just a bunch of spindly metal and black fabric. Of all of his boyfriend's possessions, he's sure the broken umbrella is the least of Travis' worries. It's not like it actually means anything to him.

"It's right on top," Niall says. "I can still get it."

Harry shakes his head, starts tugging at Niall's sleeve to get him to move along the pavement.

"I'm not making you dig through the rubbish," he says, ignoring the scowl on Niall's face. " It doesn't matter. I'm already wet anyway."

"Yeah, I see that," Niall nods. He turns to give Harry a once-over through the rain, just his eyes and nose peeking out from the hole in the hood of his raincoat. He unzips the top so that his mouth is visible. "Was that your umbrella, Harry?"

Harry doesn't take a second glance at the bin.

"No," he says as he continues to pull them away from the bin. "No, it wasn't my umbrella."

Niall doesn't say anything, but Harry can tell he knows. It's just an umbrella. Why else would he have wanted to hold onto it if not because of Travis?

He keeps his head down, a poor attempt at shielding his face from the storm, and leads the rest of the short walk from the restaurant to the underground.

As soon as they're inside and leaving puddles on the tiled floor, Niall decides he's going to say something anyway.

"I went to the hospital this morning," he tells Harry. The fact that he'd held onto this all afternoon, all evening, until the walk home after their work shift means he's not just mentioning it for fun.

Harry braces himself. "Yeah?"

"Some of the nurses were asking about you," Niall says. "They were wondering if you were okay. Apparently they haven't seen you in a few days."

"Or a week," Harry shrugs, not wanting to beat around the bush.

"You're still upset about everything?"

"Yup," Harry says shortly, because he is. It's been two weeks since all of Travis' secrets came out, a month since Travis landed himself in the hospital, seven days since Louis' departure, and the pain in his chest hasn't let up.

Nothing has changed.

He still hasn't come to terms with Travis' behavior, still hasn't been able to think up any plausible explanations. He's been taking time off from going to the hospital, trying to do what Louis had suggested and give his head and heart a break from the questions he has, but it hasn't done much to help. When the worst thoughts in his head are screaming at him louder than anything else in there, it doesn't help to have a flat to himself for the first time in weeks. It doesn't help to be alone. It doesn't help to give himself _more_ time to think.

But he can't bring himself to go back to visit Travis yet, either.

He's thought about it, of course he has. He's even made it as far as riding the tube to the correct stop and walking halfway to the hospital, but he's tired. Visiting hurts. Not visiting hurts. He's just not sure what he's really supposed to do to fix this.

So yes, he's still upset, and no, he hasn't been back to the hospital since before Louis left. And if that makes him a terrible boyfriend, then so be it. At least he's being honest about the way he feels. At least he's not holding back.

"Can I ask you something?" Niall says then, as they make their way down to the platform. "Feel free to not answer or tell me to shut up and mind my own business."

"Okay," Harry says, though his stomach does do a flip, and he feels himself grow tense as if getting ready for another attack.

"Do you see a future with Travis?"

And of all the questions Niall could have asked, this feels like the one Harry hadn't wanted to hear the most. He shakes some of the water off his coat, listens to the sound of their feet squeaking along the wet floor, ignores the way his heart seems to beat louder in his ears.

Travis isn't getting better. He isn't waking up. What sort of future is Harry supposed to imagine for them if he can't imagine even imagine a future where Travis is out of his hospital bed again?

"To be honest," he says, pretending he can't feel the way his throat tightens, the way his insides twist, "I can't see much of anything with Travis at all."

The issue isn't so much of whether or not Harry is in Travis' future, but whether or not Travis even has a future of his own.

He leaves it at that. He doesn't want to talk about it tonight, doesn't want this to be the last conversation he has before he locks himself in his flat with only these words to think about. He gets on the tube, wet and lonely, Niall heading in the opposite direction, and tries not to think about it.

\---

It doesn't help. He makes it through his front door without getting washed away into the sewer, but Niall's question sticks to him, undissolvable, unaffected by the rain.

"Are you busy?"

"Who?" Louis asks, distracted. "Me?"

"No, the other guy I'm on the phone with."

"I'm just trying to pack my entire life into four suitcases," Louis says, "but no, I'm not busy. What's up?"

Harry mutes the television, rolls onto his back, his hair still damp from the downpour, and stares at his ceiling.

"I haven't seen my boyfriend in a week."

He doesn't know if saying it out loud takes the weight off his chest or just solidifies the wet cement feeling in his stomach even more.

He hears some shuffling on the other end of the line before Louis responds. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know," Harry says weakly, shutting his eyes, trying to figure out exactly what he feels. "I don't know what I want."

"Do you want to see him?" Louis tries.

"I don't know."

"Do you feel guilty for not seeing him?"

"A little, yeah," Harry admits, because he does. Probably more than a little.

"Is it because you think you should feel guilty," Louis asks, "or is it because you actually feel bad about it?"

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut even harder, hates how this is making him think about everything. He knows he hasn't made much progress on the _taking a break_ front, but so far, he hasn't really spoken out loud about these problems with anyone.

"Both," he decides. "I feel guilty for both reasons." And it's just really shitty that Travis has put him in this position. Harry should want to be there for him when he's like this. He shouldn't be hiding in his flat and avoiding the hospital. "Travis shouldn't have kept everything from me."

"But he did," Louis points out. "And he left you to deal with that on your own."

And it fucking sucks.

"It fucking sucks."

"He's a dickhead," Louis agrees.

"I just want this feeling to go away," Harry tells him with a frustrated groan. He grabs one of the throw pillows at his side and hugs it to his chest. "I want it to go away, but I know that can only happen one of two ways. Either Trav wakes up by some miracle and we talk and move past it, or I just... get over it."

Louis is quiet on the other end for a moment, and Harry wishes more than anything that he could be less than a continent away, that they could be having this conversation over leftover pizza and another rom-com, that things could be different.

"When you say 'get over it,'" Louis finally says, slowly, carefully, like his words are tiptoeing through the shards of glass Harry's spilled around them, "do you mean 'get over it' and forgive him, or like, 'get over it' and get on with your life?"

"I don't know," Harry says. He doesn't know anything these days. A week ago, when Louis had hinted that this might be the beginning of the end, Harry had shot him down, recoiled at the idea, could hardly stomach the thought. Now, he doesn't know what he wants or what's going to happen. He just knows that this is a lot harder than he'd thought it would be. He'd thought taking a few days off from visiting Travis would bring him some clarity, and it hasn't.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Louis asks.

Harry stares at the ceiling, feeling awfully deflated. "Have I blown everything out of proportion?" he asks without answering. "Do you think I could be overreacting?"

"To everything that happened with Travis?"

"Yeah," Harry says, shutting his eyes again, pressing the heel of his hand to the center of his forehead to relieve some of the pressure. "Have I built it all up in my head?"

"I don't think so," Louis replies. "Harry, you're allowed to feel the way you feel."

"Yeah?" Because he feels like he's going out of his mind some days. He feels like he's been making a bigger deal out of all of this than he should be, but the fact of the matter is that he just can't shake it. He just can't seem to find a way around it.

"I mean, as Travis' best friend, I should probably be telling you yes, you are overreacting and there has to be a good reason he's kept everything from you," Louis says, "but I spent the past month getting to know you, Harry, and unfortunately that means I'm your friend too, and I know you're also a good person, and you wouldn't be having such a tough time if it weren't warranted."

"But it's not like he cheated on me or anything," Harry tries. "It's not like he ever did anything malicious towards me. He just-"

"Harry," Louis stops him. "If you're looking to excuse him, maybe that means you're ready to forgive him."

The words hit Harry's ears, a little broken up over the phone, but it's like the whole world goes quiet for a moment. His thoughts stop, the pounding in his head stops, everything settles down.

"How can I forgive him if it still hurts the way it does?" he asks, voice rough, chest aching.

"You can forgive someone and still not be okay with what they did," Louis tells him.

And that's a bit of advice that seems to be worth holding onto. Harry steals it for himself, locks it up in his head, in his heart, lets it seep into his bones, tries to push it out to every fiber of his body.

He can forgive someone and still not be okay with what they did.

"You think I'm ready to forgive him?" he asks quietly.

"I'm not in your head, H," Louis reminds him. "I'm not even in the same country. If you're still angry, and you're still confused, then probably not, but if you're tired and you just want this to be over, then maybe you're just too stubborn to realize you _are_ ready."

Harry nods, remembers Louis can't see him, and mumbles a soft, "Okay."

Maybe he isn't ready yet. Maybe he's working on it. Maybe he'll get there eventually.

He can forgive Travis and not be okay with what he did, but he's still not ready to forgive him. Not tonight.

\---

It's odd, having an entire flat to himself after not only going four weeks with Louis as his houseguest, but after going two years with having Travis there to share the space with him. It's an adjustment. It's different. It's not Harry's favorite thing in the world.

A week into his forced solitude, he's still getting used to being on his own, making his own schedule, living by his own rules, not having his life revolve around someone else's. On one hand, he's no longer afraid of Louis bursting into the bathroom while he's showering or doing his business, or even, well, having a wank. But on the other hand, he misses having someone there, not even to unload all of his life troubles onto, but to just talk to, to keep him from becoming a recluse, to stop him from spending unhealthy amounts of time curled up in his bed.

To stop him from thinking about Travis.

He'd called Louis that first night.

Jet-lagged and drained, an entire ocean between them, Louis had answered and he'd just talked. For ten minutes, and then twenty, and after an hour of going on about his flight, the crappy airline food, how his driver had gotten lost three times on the way home from the airport, and how his flatmate had taken over his bedroom while he'd been away, the static had lifted from Harry's head a little. He'd felt like he could breathe for a minute.

Since then, they've spoken more nights than they haven't.

Since then, Harry has been trying to navigate his new solo life, trying to figure out how to be himself when the biggest part of him isn't there anymore.

"Do you need me to come down and visit?" his mum asks when he maybe lets slip that he's not having the easiest time adjusting.

"I'll be okay," Harry promises, trying to keep his voice light. "You'll see me soon for Christmas anyway."

"Christmas is in two months," his mum reminds him. She sounds worried. Harry hates that she sounds worried.

"Then I'll see you in two months," he says. He's not about to have her drive all the way down to London to coddle him and make sure he's really alright when he's already mostly sure he's not about to drop off the face of the earth. He hadn't let her visit immediately after the accident and he's not about to let her visit just because he's feeling a little lonely without Louis.

"That's Travis' friend?" his mum asks. "Is he staying with you when he gets back?"

"No, mum," Harry tells her. "Louis found his own place before he left. He'll be living there."

"But you'll still see him, right?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "Probably." Hopefully. He hasn't really considered the possibility that he might not see him again.

"Good," his mum says. "He seems like a nice boy."

"He is a nice boy," Harry says with a soft laugh. He doesn't mention that he's spoken to him several times since he's left. He doesn't mention that he's counting down the days until Louis returns. He doesn't mention much more about Louis, other than the fact that he's gone and it's quiet without him, and he is indeed a nice boy.

He lets his mum go on about what she's been doing lately, about the dinner party she'd hosted over the weekend, about Gemma's tentative plans to travel in the spring, even about the way the leaves are falling in the back garden. He listens more than he talks, and when he tells her he loves her and hangs up some long time later, it's only silence and more solitude that are there to greet him again.

This is going to take some getting used to.

As he goes to sit up, fetch a book, his laptop, a notebook, anything to keep him busy until he has to leave for work, a bit of movement outside his window catches his eye and makes him pause. He turns, nerves still somehow intact, surprised to find his neighbor's cat climbing along the fire escape like some sort of sign from above.

Maybe he should get a cat, he thinks as he watches the animal approach his window and take a seat on the sill. A cat could keep him company, wouldn't require heartfelt conversation, would be someone to come home to, someone to take care of, keep his mind off of everything. A cat would love him, wouldn't lie to him or keep important life details from him. He could take care of a cat.

This cat starts batting at his window before it lets out the worst sort of wail, its eyes focused on Harry through the glass like laser beams.

"Nevermind," he sighs to himself as he slowly stands and makes his way to the window. "Not getting a cat."

The cat continues to glare at him with her wide yellow eyes, knowing Harry will let her in just as he has those two previous times over the past year. Harry unlocks the window and pushes it open. She's friendly, mostly, has only almost clawed her way through his skin once before.

"Come on," he says, trying to get her to jump through on her own without having to reach out and grab her.

She doesn't budge. Of course she doesn't.

"Really?" Harry mutters, rolling up his sleeves. "You're going to play this game today?"

But as he goes to push the window higher so he can stick his arms outside, the cat darts under the glass and takes off across his flat to hide in his bathroom.

Harry finds her sitting in the bottom of his shower, the light coming in low through the window and hitting her just right like she's some sort of model. And maybe she is. Maybe she's posing just for him.

He stares back at her, the tiles along the shower walls creating the perfect background, white squares all in a neat grid, geometric, simple, repeating, and it's like something just clicks on in his head.

He wants to take a photo.

"Please, do not move," he tells the cat as if she'd ever actually listen to him. "I'll be right back."

He runs off to grab his camera from his closet, hoping he has at least five seconds worth of battery life left in it. It's been months since he's used it, months since he's had any sort of creative desire to take it out at all. And while a cat in his shower is hardly a photoshoot, it's still something.

As he gets down low on his bathroom floor to find the best angle, he feels the smallest flicker of something he can't quite put into words. He's gotten so used to associating photography with unemployment, with rejection letters, with arguing with Travis over his job situation. But here, with his elbows digging into the cold tiles and a cat staring resolutely into the streaming sunlight, the flicker feels like some sort of nostalgia, like if he closes his eyes and sticks out his hand, his fingers might brush the ghost of his old self, the person who enjoyed doing things like this simply for the sake of doing them.

He snaps a handful of photos, manages to keep the cat from running off again, and for a moment, he feels like himself, like the person he'd been before all of this, but also like the person he could be after everything manages to settle and he finally learns how to heal. Not the same, but not completely broken either.

\---

The photo goes on Instagram at the request of his mum. He touches it up just the slightest bit, fixes some of the coloring, crops it the way he likes it, and posts it within an hour of his neighbor knocking on his door with a thousand apologies.

Apparently it alerts the rest of the world that he's still alive and still knows how to use a camera.

On his way to work, he gets a call from a friend who he hasn't spoken to in over a year.

"Does this mean you're ready to start shooting again?" she asks.

To Harry's immense surprise, his first instinct isn't to say _no._

"I haven't done a photoshoot in months," he tells her, huddled against the cold as he leans against the outside of the restaurant. "I'm a little out of practice."

"Could you be ready to go by Friday?"

"Stella..."

"Listen," she says, "a friend of mine has been working on an idea for a few weeks now. You're the only person I know who's any sort of good at capturing what he had in mind, and I just thought if you were posting on Instagram again, maybe you'd be up for a quick shoot."

"That was one photo taken in my own shower," Harry points out, but it still isn't a no.

"He'll do all the set design, I'll do all the modeling," Stella tries one last time. "You just have to take the photos, Harry."

And Harry, who hasn't been part of a genuine photoshoot since May, who hadn't really been looking to do one, who feels every sort of nauseous just thinking about taking these photos despite the brief high he'd gotten photographing his neighbor's cat, agrees to give it a go.

\---

Stella isn't the only one to reach out to him that day. It's like everyone he knows takes the photo as a sign that yes, he's still alive, he's functioning enough to use social media, and that he's somehow ready to jump back into the real world even if he isn't.

He gets half a dozen more texts and two voicemails, one of them from Liam while he's at work, and the comments on the photo quickly become overrun with people checking up on him, excited to see him posting again, telling him they love him, that they've been thinking about him.

"What about Travis?" Louis asks when Harry tries to explain as much to him over the phone the following night.

"What about him?" Harry asks, because it's been ten days since he last saw his boyfriend and just thinking about that makes him want to roll off the side of the couch and hit his head on the corner of the coffee table.

"Have they been thinking about him?" Louis clarifies.

"They don't know him."

"Sounds like they don't really know you either," Louis says lightly. "Like they saw your picture and suddenly remembered they were supposed to care, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Harry sighs, shifting onto his side and trying to get comfortable. "It does feel a bit like that, but it's not like I've made myself all that accessible lately."

"I know," Louis agrees, "you've been spending all of your time chatting on the phone with some tosser halfway around the world."

"Hey, you called _me_ tonight."

"You picked up."

"I wasn't thinking."

"I don't know whether to be offended or not," is Louis' only reply.

Harry just smirks against the phone, arm curling around his favorite blanket, the television off tonight and one of his old mix CD's spinning in Travis' ancient CD player on the bookshelf.

He hasn't told Louis about the photoshoot yet. He hasn't told anyone. It's as if saying it out loud could cement the deal in place, as if his option to back out might be taken away if someone learns that he's already committed to doing it. It's just that people are going to have expectations if he tells them. They're going to ask about the photos, ask how it went, ask to see the finished shots, and Harry doesn't want any of that just yet. He doesn't want any expectations. He just wants to go and do his thing, and maybe, just _maybe,_ remember along the way why he'd wanted to get into photography in the first place.

But even that feels like an expectation. So Harry doesn't talk about it. He doesn't think about it.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asks instead. "Besides calling to tell me you're my only friend."

"That's a bit rude to Niall and Liam," Louis says, "but, um, well. I think tonight I'm supposed to be calling things off with Adrian. So..."

"Ah," Harry says. He can only imagine how that's supposed to go.

"Yeah."

"That should be fun."

"Mhmm."

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No," Louis says, "but you sound like you do. Why do you always want to talk about Adrian?"

"'Cause I know you hate it," Harry says, corner of his mouth twitching up again. "How is he?"

"He's good," Louis finally tells him. "I haven't seen him much since I've been back, but I haven't really had time to."

"Are you going to miss him?"

Louis is quiet for a moment. Harry takes that as a no.

"I mean, he's a decent person, good company and all that," Louis says. "But it really was just about the sex. I'll probably miss that."

"Don't worry," Harry laughs quietly. "You can still have sex in London."

"Thanks, mate," Louis snorts. "I wasn't sure if that was a thing over there or not."

"Only for those of us whose boyfriends aren't in comas."

"So, everyone but you?"

"Yeah," Harry sighs with a sad, little chuckle. "Everyone but me."

It's not like he needs sex to function, not like he's really had much of a desire for if since that horrible morning wood experience the first night Louis had slept in his bed, but he does miss it. He misses the closeness of it, misses being able to just let go and give himself over to someone else, misses feeling loved, feeling cared for. He's just missing a lot in general, sex included.

"We'll find you a new Adrian when you get here," he promises Louis.

Louis just lets out a dry laugh. "Good. Just what I wanted. Thank you."

"That's what friends are for," Harry says with a shrug.

"I think I need to find new friends."

_"You_ called _me,"_ Harry reminds him again.

"I did," Louis sighs. "I did. Next time I'll remember to call Liam instead."

Liam, right. Harry still hasn't checked in with him, hasn't seen him in a few weeks, knows Louis had wanted them to keep in contact after he'd left. Harry just hasn't gotten around to it. Liam had been Travis' friend, his roommate at uni, and while Harry has always gotten along with him just fine, he knows Liam can be loyal to a fault. He probably won't like that Harry hasn't been to the hospital in over a week.

"I should call him back," Harry says, despite wishing he could avoid it forever. "He sounded worried when he called. What have you been telling him about me?"

"Only that you cry yourself to sleep every night," Louis says. "And that you're thinking of pulling Travis' plug."

Harry rolls his eyes, lifts his phone away from where it's glued to the side of his face to check the time. It's nearly midnight. They've gone back and forth for another forty minutes tonight.

"I should go to sleep," he says, even if he doesn't have to be anywhere until work at three o'clock.

"Call Liam back."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Louis says. "He'll be happy to know you're still as annoying and needy as ever."

Harry almost hangs up then and there, but he waits, keeps his thumb hovering over the End Call button. "Goodnight, Louis," he says.

Louis lets out a soft laugh. "'Night, love."

The mix CD keeps playing in the background, filling the flat with noise, with some semblance of life. Harry lets it play out as he lays there, phone still clutched in his hand despite his connection to Louis being cut off. He waits until the last note fades and the CD player automatically shuts off before he bothers getting up and making the switch to his bed.

\---

"You can credit Louis with getting me to pick up the phone," Harry tells Liam when he meets him at the pub for mid-week drinks the following night, as per Louis' request. It's crowded for a Wednesday, everyone out with their mates to watch the football, but they manage to squeeze into stools at the far end of the bar.

"Louis is good at that," Liam says, checking out the beer menu. "I'm glad you two hit it off so well. I know Travis was a worried about it."

"Was he?" Harry asks, frowning. With the way Travis had spent the entire car ride to the airport trying to talk Harry out of his own nerves, Harry had thought he'd seemed fine.

"Louis is like his family," Liam shrugs. "It was important to him."

"Oh," Harry says, because obviously it would have been. Anyone would have been worried about that. And then it hits him. "You don't think he was worried Louis might tell me everything, do you?"

"Tell you what?"

"You know," Harry says, not wanting to get into it. "Everything about his childhood, his parents, their past with each other. I know Louis told you I found out."

"He did," Liam nods and drops his gaze to the bar top. "He, um... He also told me you haven't been visiting Travis in the hospital."

And there it is. There's the reaction Harry had been dreading.

"I just needed some time away from him," Harry explains, trying to keep his voice calm, keep his emotions out of it. He's been feeling guilty enough on his own, he's not sure he can take Liam adding to it. "Is that alright?" he asks. "Or are you going to give me a lecture on how I'm being stubborn?"

Liam opens his mouth to answer, pauses, thinks about what he's going to say, and shuts it again. Harry knows he's being stubborn, he doesn't need to be told. He also knows he's been trying to forgive, trying to move on, and that maybe... maybe if he goes back to the hospital in a day or two, he'll have a clearer head. Maybe it won't hurt as much. But Liam getting on his case about it isn't going to help anything.

"I'm not going to lecture you," Liam says then, as Harry flags down the bartender. "I- I actually didn't know either."

"Didn't know what?"

"About anything with Trav," Liam says. "We met after everything happened with his parents. I didn't even know about him and Louis, and I've been friends with Louis for almost as long. I always thought they were just really close."

"So did I," Harry says with a bitter huff of a laugh before he gives his order to the bartender and digs his wallet out of his back pocket. He's only having one drink tonight. He can't waste whatever cash he has on more alcohol than he needs.

He sets the only bills he has on the bar and takes a quick glance up at the football game playing out on the television above them. It's weird, even just watching two teams he doesn't care about. He hadn't realized how much he'd subconsciously cut football out of his life for his relationship's sake - to avoid the fighting, to avoid having to sleep on the couch after a Christmas gift gone wrong, to avoid Travis needing to explain himself and, for once in his life, open up about something.

"Do you ever think that maybe Travis had a good reason for not telling you these things?" Liam asks as the ball gets kicked out of bounds and Harry lets his eyes fall from the screen to the beer now waiting on the bar before him.

"Sometimes," Harry admits, pulling the glass closer. "Louis reckons if I'm looking to excuse him, then maybe I'm ready to forgive him. But I just... We were in a serious relationship for three years. What reason could he possibly have for keeping these things from me?"

"Maybe he just wanted to keep his family separate from his love life," Liam suggests.

Harry shakes his head. "It wasn't about his family. Football isn't his family. His thing with Louis wasn't his family."

"True," Liam concedes. "Maybe he just didn't want to have to go through the pain of explaining everything."

It sounds like he's grasping at straws.

"Maybe you intimidate him," he adds.

Harry has to roll his eyes. "You're suggesting he didn't tell me anything because he was _afraid_ of me?"

"Of your reaction?" Liam tries, cringing at his own words. "Maybe he thought you'd see what a mess his life has been, and you would leave."

"He should know me better than that," Harry says tiredly. "I would never leave him just because he's been through some shit. I'd leave because he's kept it all from me, because he let me believe we'd have a future together when I'm not sure he really wanted one."

"You mean kids?" Liam asks, and Harry hates how genuine and earnest he always sounds, like he's just trying to fix everything.

"Yeah," Harry nods. "Kids, marriage, all of that."

Liam doesn't say anything for a moment. Harry tries to focus on the game again as he takes a sip of his beer, but he just can't bring himself to watch. Perhaps football has been ruined for him forever.

"Maybe," Liam starts, cautious, careful, "maybe Travis didn't say anything about any of that because he was willing to stay open to the idea. If it meant staying with you, maybe he was willing to give it a chance, if it was what you really wanted."

And that, Harry really hates. Because it means the anger he's been feeling has half the amount of wind in its sails, has significantly less fire to keep it boiling. It means he's been avoiding the hospital for far longer than he should have been.

"If that's the way he felt," he says, wishing they could stop talking in _ifs_ and _maybes,_ "then he should have spoken to me about it instead of having me find out like this."

"He's in a coma, Harry," Liam reminds him uselessly. "He had no idea you'd find out like this."

"I know," Harry sighs, but he did find out like this, and he can't talk to Travis, and this guessing game really, truly sucks.

"I think you need to visit him," Liam says. He runs a finger through the condensation on his glass. Harry watches the droplets collect before they roll all the way to the bottom.

"You think that might help?" he asks.

Liam shrugs. "He's your boyfriend."

Harry just blinks at him.

"You still love him, don't you?" Liam asks.

"I- yeah," Harry says, furrowing his brow. "Of course I do. But visiting him while he's in a coma won't fix any of this."

"Maybe it'll help you remember why you love him," Liam offers, "and then you'll be able to forgive him."

Harry sets his glass down on the bar top, chest heavy, head aching,

It's just a mess. All of this is a disaster. He knows why he loves Travis. He knows why he loves his boyfriend, the man that got in the car with him to pick Louis up from the airport. He loves Travis because he's always been able to be himself around him. He loves Travis because Travis laughs at his horrible jokes. He loves him because he makes the best hot chocolate, because he hugs like he never wants to let go, because he once drove an hour through several inches of snow to pick Harry up from work. He loves his boyfriend.

He just can't get past the feeling in his chest every time he visits Travis in the hospital that says the Travis he knows and loves isn't truly the Travis waiting to wake up from his coma.

There's no logical reason for Travis to have been afraid to talk to him. They'd been together for almost three full years, and in that time, Harry had trusted Travis, had given away pieces of himself that had been difficult to let go of, had done nothing to convince Travis he couldn't do the same. If that hadn't been enough for Travis to trust him, then Harry doesn't know what would have been.

"I know why I love my boyfriend," he tells Liam in a last-ditch effort to get him to understand. "But I don't know how much of that person stuck in that hospital bed actually _is_ my boyfriend."

"If anyone can relate, it should be me," Liam says, frowning, his eyes dimmed of their usual brightness, shoulders hunched from where he's got his elbows propped on the bar. "He didn't tell me any of this stuff either, but I just... Isn't it easier to accept it for what it is and pray that he gets better?"

Maybe for Liam it is, but this is Harry's future that's coming into question. Liam is only Travis' friend. He doesn't have to make any choices. He can just visit Travis in the hospital from now until forever - until he wakes up - and he gets to have a life regardless of what Travis' intentions had been. Nothing about this is easy for Harry. His future is dependent on what he feels for Travis. Liam's isn't.

Still, Harry nods, wraps his fingers around the base of his glass and stares down at the rest of his drink.

"I'm trying, Liam," he says because that's all he's been doing these days. He's trying to accept it. He's trying to forgive Travis. Of course it would be easier if he just had blind faith in his boyfriend, if he could get over his hurt feelings and not feel sick to his stomach with every visit to the hospital. But he's not going to get to that point just because Liam wants him to.

He's trying. That's all anyone can ask of him.

\---

Trying means he spends half the morning of the day before the photoshoot on a step-ladder with his head in his closet, digging out all of his camera equipment and setting it on his bedroom floor. It means he only cringes a little at the mess he'd left on his top shelf after his last photoshoot hadn't gone as planned. It means he has to calm himself down several times and not let his frustration get the better of him when all of his other batteries, even his spares, are dead.

He plugs them into the outlets, lets them charge. He tests his lighting equipment. He organizes all of his lenses. He paces. He paces _a lot._

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

The only thing that stops him from calling Stella and cancelling the shoot is the fact that it's supposed to be mutually beneficial. No one's getting paid for any part of it. Stella gets free photos for her portfolio, her friend gets to build his set and turn his creative vision into something tangible, and Harry gets to dip his toes back into the water. There aren't any stakes. It's supposed to be for fun. It's alright if it doesn't work out.

He grabs the first battery that's even remotely charged and pops it into his favorite camera. So much of his measly income has gone back into purchasing his equipment, saving for new lenses, keeping up to date with his editing software. It's hard today, to look at everything he's pulled from his closet and not feel even the smallest sting of regret. It's hard not to wonder if it's all been a waste of money, of time, of effort.

Travis had always wanted him to try for the smaller gigs, find a job at a camera store, shoot stock photography, school photo days, be that guy that tries to get the kids to sit still for their family Christmas cards. If he'd listened, would he and Travis have been better off? Would they be living in a bigger flat with reliable heating, where the hot water lasts the entire duration of a shower and he doesn't have to wear three layers in the winter? Would he be struggling to make ends meet without his boyfriend? Would he regret it? Would the nine-to-five have made him miserable?

Probably. It would probably be a _yes_ to all of those things. But he's kind of miserable now anyway, isn't he? He's not getting the opportunities he'd dreamt of. He's barely hanging on financially. He doesn't even have a boyfriend to keep him warm when the heat stops running.

"Tell me not to sell all of my camera equipment and apply for a job as a school yearbook photographer."

He's met with silence on the other end of the line and realizes after a few seconds that it's only seven o'clock in the morning in Chicago.

Louis clears his throat. "Uhm," he starts, sounding rightfully confused. "Don't... don't do that. Whatever you just said- don't do that."

"Yeah?" Harry asks. He's being irrational, he knows he is, but he can't help it. His life has basically upended itself since the accident. He's not sure what constitutes being rational anymore.

"Is everything alright?" Louis asks, his voice still thick and heavy with sleep. "You going through your photo stuff?"

"Just reorganizing," Harry lies. He still hasn't told Louis about the shoot.

"That's good," Louis says. "Getting ready for my return? Don't want me coming back to a mess?"

"It's the least I could do," Harry jokes absently as he climbs back up the step-ladder to fetch his empty equipment bag from the back of the top shelf. He'll fill it with what he needs. He'll meet Stella at the shoot. He'll go through with everything. Maybe he'll even enjoy it.

"My flight gets in pretty late tomorrow," Louis tells him. "Are you going to be at the restaurant?"

As Harry pulls his bag from the back, he hears a quiet thud of something small falling over behind it. "Yeah," he says, frowning. "Yeah, I'm... I have to work."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky me," Harry nods. He's not really paying attention anymore as he reaches into the far end of the shelf to find what fell. He pats around, his hand falling into dust and cobwebs until it lands on top of what feels like a small, flat book.

"H? You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry, I just..."

But he doesn't finish the thought because he pulls out checkbook. Travis' checkbook, according to his name written in the top corner of all of the remaining blank checks. Harry flips through them, brow furrowed, wondering when on earth Travis ever needed to write someone a check. He didn't know people their age even wrote checks these days, but this... this book looks well-used.

"Harry?"

"I'm still here," Harry tells Louis as he turns to the back of the book where Travis would have made note of any payments he might have made. And he did, because Harry finds his loopy handwriting scrawled across multiple pages, each entry dated for the first of each month, each entry for five hundred pounds to be sent to Mr. and Mrs. Lowell.

He shuts the book between his hands, takes a deep breath, tries to blink the hot sting of frustration out of his eyes as he grabs the phone from under his ear and stares at an imaginary point on the wall.

"I'm... I have to go, Lou," he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Sorry, I- There's um. I'm having a bit of trouble with one of my cameras," he lies. "Can I talk to you tomorrow?"

If Louis thinks it's suspicious, he doesn't let on. "You mean I can go back to sleep?"

"Yeah," Harry tells him, heart clenching. "Yeah, go back to sleep. I'll see you soon. Enjoy your last day over there."

"Will do," Louis says. He hangs up.

Knees shaking, fingers fumbling to lock his phone, Harry slips it into his pocket and starts back down the step ladder, one rung at a time until he's on solid ground. He needs to sit. He needs to relax, to be able to think straight, needs just one moment of stability.

Gripping the closet jamb for support, he slides down against the wall, settles with his back to it, tilts his head back, and just tries to remember to breathe. The floorboards feel like they're ready to crack open beneath him. The wood feels ready to split, to splinter, to carry him into the depths of the earth and let him crumble amongst the rubble, the debris, the shit-storm Travis has managed to leave behind.

So his boyfriend has been sending chunks of his income to his parents once a month for years. The same parents that made his life hell growing up, who barely gave two shits about him, and the same money he'd told Harry again and again that they didn't have.

He's just so _fucking_ tired of this.

Because it's different this time around. It's not something they've avoided discussing or something they've never sat down and had a real conversation about like marriage or kids or their future together. They've definitely discussed their finances. They've definitely gone over this.

This time, Harry isn't grasping for excuses because there just aren't any.

There's no other way to interpret desperately scrounging for more hours at the restaurant last year to save for a friend's wedding. There's no miscommunication behind Travis getting pissed at him for buying an actual Valentine's Day present. When the two of them would be hunched over a stack of unpaid bills late at night, or when Travis would forward him job applications, when there had been screaming and fighting, a _for fuck's sake, Harry, you can't work at that fucking restaurant forever,_ and the crack of the door slamming shut in Travis' face, how is Harry supposed to look at this check book and say that Travis hadn't been blatantly lying to him?

He inhales a sharp, shuddery breath, tries not to let this break him. He wipes his face with his sleeve and flutters his eyelids until the blur of his vision goes away.

It's not even about the money. He doesn't care about the money. It's Travis' money and Travis can do whatever he wants with it. It's the fact that they've been struggling to make ends meet ever since they'd moved into this flat together, and Travis had still had the audacity to even _talk_ to him about savings, about budgeting, to complain to him about finances being tight, when he'd secretly been funneling a portion of his paycheck up to Doncaster every four weeks.

If that isn't reason enough to be pissed at him, to need some sort of break, to have avoided the hospital for as long as he has, then Harry doesn't know what is.

He picks up the checkbook and hurls it at the opposite wall with everything he has. It catches the edge of a framed photo and sends it crashing to the floor, the glass splintering and shattering across the wood.

He leaves it there.

With his eyes stinging and his breath still coming short, he finishes sorting through his camera equipment. He organizes everything he won't need for the photoshoot and places it back on the top shelf. He selects his lenses, packs his lights, his tripod, his spare battery charger, his camera.

He leaves the glass on the floor and goes to work, and when he comes home late that night the shards are still there and he's less certain than ever of what he's supposed to do.

\---

"Harry?" Stella stops him halfway through the photoshoot the following afternoon.

Harry lifts his finger from the shutter button and slowly lowers the camera from his face. He can almost feel the words getting ready to come out of her mouth. He can see the worry in her eyes, the hesitation in the way she's biting her lip, had heard it in the way she'd just called his name.

"Yeah?" he asks, bracing himself for whatever it is she's about to say.

"Do you, um... Is it alright if we take a break?" she asks as if she's already apologizing for it. "I think we, um, we might need a moment to regroup. I'm sorry, it's just-"

"It's fine," Harry promises her. He shoots her a tight lipped smile. "No worries."

"Ten minutes?"

"Sure." Harry nods.

He removes the camera strap from around his neck and sets his camera down on the nearest flat surface, and then he heads for the exit. It takes him straight outside, the door to the storage space rented by Stella's friend, Brian, shutting behind him with a metallic clatter. They're not in the best part of London, but it's not the first time Harry's been to a shoot at a place like this. The storage space, home to Brian's design props and some of his own photography equipment, doubles as his office, and today, they're using it as their studio.

The three of them have spent the past hour at the back of it, surrounded by hundreds of the ugliest pink tiles, tiles that Brian had decided to painstakingly cover every inch of his walls, floor, and even the ceiling with. It's like they've been shooting in a retro women's locker room all morning. As soon as Harry had laid eyes on the set, he'd realized why Stella had asked him to do this. It fits perfectly with his portfolio. It's the kind of opportunity he would have jumped at six months ago.

Right now though, as he crosses his arms tight over his chest, dressed only in a thin white t-shirt, standing huddled against the side of the building, he feels like he shouldn't even be touching his camera.

The door beside him opens. He tries to school his face back into something less miserable.

"Is it alright if I join you out here?" Stella asks, poking her head out. "It's hot as balls inside, and this coat is fucking heavy."

Harry doesn't say anything, just gives a small nod and scoots along the wall so he's not right against the door.

Today had not been the best idea.

"Take a deep breath, hun," Stella tells him.

Harry can't. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For- I don't know." He lifts his arms and drops them helplessly at his sides. "For sucking so hard today? For letting my head be everywhere else but here." He can't help the sad, awful laugh that follows.

"First of all," Stella sighs, "you're not _sucking_ today. You're going through something deeply personal and no one can expect you to be made of sunshine and daisies and pure focus all the time."

"It's a photoshoot," Harry points out. "It's work. I'm supposed to be focused."

And he knows he hasn't been. He's just been thinking about Travis all morning, hasn't stopped thinking about him and the shredded fragments of their relationship since last night.

"It's supposed to be for fun," Stella says. "Are you getting paid to take my picture?"

"No."

"Then it's not work," she reminds him. "I know you're tired. I know you're stressed. I'm not asking you to tell your awful jokes and stories or put on music and turn this into a party, but you need to breathe. Unclench your jaw, loosen up your arms. I don't care if you don't say anything for the rest of the morning, but if you're stiff and robotic, you're going to make _me_ look stiff and robotic, and then Brian will have glued all of those fucking tiles onto his walls with his bare hands for nothing."

Harry just turns to stare at her, his shoulders heavy but his eyes dry. "Have you always been this bossy?"

"Always," Stella nods. "You just haven't seen me in over a year."

"Probably for the best," Harry notes.

"Wanker."

"Thanks."

"Come on," Stella sighs, reaching out for Harry's fingers, her hand so much warmer than his. "One deep breath, and then we're going back in there and you're going to be the photographer we both know you are."

Harry's not sure working in a restaurant for all of his adult life qualifies him to be any sort of photographer at all at this point, but he tries. He takes a deep breath, and even though it doesn't help at all, he follows her back inside to at least see this shoot through to the end.

\---

The second hour is just as miserable as the first, if not because their time has been cut in half and it's now been brought to everyone's attention that Harry isn't on his photo game, then because he starts overthinking every shot, trying too hard to get it perfect, trying too hard to capture something that will draw everyone's attention.

It doesn't work. He gets maybe a handful of good shots out of the hundreds he takes. Stella tries to promise him that it's fine, that she had fun, that she'll love whatever photos he puts out in the end, but nothing she says does anything to pull Harry back from the edge.

He takes another cab straight to the restaurant, locks his equipment in the manager's office, and focuses on his actual job through the afternoon and into the evening.

He only takes three separate breaks to recompose himself. He only gets asked by Abby twice if he's okay. He manages to hold everything together until his last table for the night, and then he trips over the leg of a chair on his way out of the kitchen while carrying a tray full of drinks, and that's that.

"Harry, please go home," his boss tells him when she finds him in the kitchen, soaked in ice water and three glasses of red wine.

Harry glances up from where he's dabbing uselessly at the front of his shirt with an old towel, his hands shaking, his heart racing again.

"I'm fine," he promises, but he can hear the tightness in his own voice, can feel his lungs trying desperately to keep his breathing even and under control. "I can finish."

"I know you can," his boss says, handing him a wad of dry kitchen roll. "I'm just saying you don't have to. Pete can cover your last table and we're more than fine for cleanup. Go home and get some rest, sweetheart. We'll see you tomorrow."

Tomorrow, because this never ends, because this is all he has, because he can hardly consider himself a photographer at the moment, because he's going to be stuck serving tables for the rest of his fucking life.

He changes into his dry clothes, slips out the back door, and pulls out his phone to call for a third cab, yet another expense he can't afford today.

It takes everything he has not to break down on the drive back to his flat. He holds it in, all of his exhaustion, all of his frustration, his anger, his disappointment in himself, keeps it bottled up and building in his lungs, squeezing at his heart like a hand refusing to let it go.

He doesn't let go, he doesn't plan on letting go, not until he climbs out of the cab and unloads his bags and turns to see someone already waiting for him outside his door.

"Hey," Louis says, dropping his cigarette on the ground and stamping it out. "I know you said you'd be working tonight, but I thought I'd swing by anyway and wait for you. What's with the bags?"

Harry blinks at him, feels the hold on his composure slip an inch. He tries to tighten his grip.

"I had a photoshoot this morning," he says and hears the cab pull away behind him.

"Yeah?" Louis asks, surprised. "How'd that go?"

Harry shakes his head and lets out a weighted breath, his throat already constricting. He tries to swallow the lump in it, but he knows this is a losing battle. He's running on his last threads.

"It... it really kind of sucked," he says.

The carefree smile falls from Louis' face. "Oh."

"Yeah," Harry nods shakily. He goes to take a small step forward but finds himself rooted at the spot.

"Was work at least alright?" Louis asks, taking the step for him and lessening the space between them. "You're home early. I thought I'd be waiting longer."

"I spilled a tray of drinks on myself."

"You didn't."

"I did," Harry says, adjusting his grip on his bags. "Today was just... it was really shitty, Lou, and I'm- I don't know... Every time I feel like I'm getting better or getting on with my life, something else comes and fucks it all up again, and I can't keep doing this. I don't want to keep feeling like this, and I can't- I can't-"

He cuts himself off, shakes his head, tries to blink the hot tears from his eyes, but he can't even do that either.

"Hey," Louis says, watching him closely. "Hey, none of that tonight. Come here."

He opens his arms and Harry falls into them at once, lets his bag drop the remaining inch to the pavement and just buries his face in Louis' shoulder as Louis wraps him up and holds him tight.

"You're alright," Louis tells him, soothing a hand over his back and swaying them ever so slightly. "I'm here. You're alright."

But all that seems to do is open the floodgates, take the stopper out of the bottle, give Harry that last push over the edge that he's been so desperately fighting to cling onto all afternoon. It's not a sob that comes out of him tonight. It's not a storm, not an earthquake, not a torrential release that has him shaking in Louis' arms and falling apart.

Tonight, on the dimly lit street outside of his flat, he just cries. They stand there, bodies held close, quiet but for the gentle hitches in Harry's breath, and it's enough. Harry doesn't need the flood tonight. He just needs Louis' arms around him, just needs to feel like he's not so alone again. He just needs this.

\---

"What are you going to do about it?" Louis asks, his head falling sideways onto Harry's shoulder to get a better look at his laptop screen.

Harry scoots closer to him, shuffles up the couch an inch or two so they're more comfortable. "Can I put our relationship on a hiatus?"

"Are you in a boyband?"

"No."

"Then I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'taking a break,'" Louis tells him, watching him go one-by-one through his photos from the day. "Couples do it all the time. You don't call it a fucking 'hiatus,' Harry. No one calls it that."

"Fine," Harry sighs, only half listening. It's two o'clock in the morning and he's just spent the past few hours catching Louis up to speed on his most recent Travis discovery and the disappointment that was his photoshoot. He's not about to argue with him over something as insignificant as what he's going to say to people when he has to explain the status of his and Travis' relationship. They're taking a break, they're on a hiatus, who cares? The fact of the matter is that Harry doesn't know if he can fully commit himself to their relationship for the time being, but he isn't ready to completely let go.

"Slow down," Louis says. He snakes an arm under Harry's and sets a hand atop his to still his movements. "How am I supposed to actually look at the photos if you're going through them so fast?"

"You're not," Harry answers simply, but he lets Louis keep his hand over his to press down on his finger and move them between photos at his own pace. "They've all been rubbish so far. I would have stopped on one if I'd seen one worth stopping for."

"How can you say that?" Louis frowns. "Your friend- What was her name again?"

"Stella."

"Stella," Louis repeats with a small nod against Harry's shoulder. "She looks stunning in every single one of these. I'm clearly not seeing what you're seeing."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Of course she looks stunning. She _is_ stunning. That doesn't mean my photos are any good. The composition's all off. The lighting could have been better. Like- see this one here?" He stops Louis from clicking through and lifts his hand to point at the screen. "Look how much of the frame I wasted. Why did I position her all the way off to the side?"

"I thought you did that on purpose," Louis says.

"I didn't."

"Okay," Louis shrugs, "well, I quite like the way you have it anyway."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then here," Harry says and picks his laptop off his thighs. He passes it to Louis. "You go through and make note of all your favorites, and I'll just sit here and watch the telly."

"That's not how this works," Louis snorts, shaking his head. "I didn't ask to see the photos so I could do your job for you. I asked because you seemed _so sure_ that they were all crap, and I needed to know if you were a liar or if I should start helping you come up with a new career path."

"I did always enjoy baking," Harry offers, begrudgingly taking his laptop back.

"Really?" Louis asks, turning to face him. "I lived with you for a month and you didn't bake me a single fucking thing."

"I was distraught," Harry says. "And I'm petty sure I baked you a potato one night."

"A _potato?"_ Louis nearly squawks. "I get that it's called a 'baked potato,' Harry, but you put a potato in the oven for me. You didn't fucking _bake_ one."

"Semantics," Harry says with a low laugh as he shifts against Louis' side, their bodies pressed all along each other, Louis' ankle hooked over his shin. "I'll bake you cookies or something. A birthday cake. Your birthday's around Christmas, isn't it?"

"Christmas Eve, yeah," Louis nods. "And I'm not letting you become a baker. You can bake me a cake, but that's it. Your photos are good, H. You're beating yourself up over nothing and I'm sure if you showed your model friend any of these, she would agree."

Harry huffs a breath of disbelief and stares at his laptop screen, rows upon rows of thumbnails lit up in his face.

"I just feel like I could have done better," he says, because he does, because he'd let his foul mood sour everything, because he'd even let it affect Stella.

"You can always do better," Louis tells him. "I'd be a bit worried if you went about thinking you were perfect."

Harry tilts his head to face Louis. "Am I not?"

"If I'm being completely honest," Louis says, ignoring Harry's little smirk, "you're a disaster."

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"Can't let your ego get too big, can we?"

"No," Harry sighs, "I suppose not."

They're quiet for a moment in the low light of Harry's living room, just the barely audible sound of the television to keep them company. Neither of them have really been watching the program that's been playing. They'd simply put it on out of habit as they'd sat down with steaming cups of tea hours ago, Harry still sniffling and rubbing at his eyes, Louis throwing their favorite blanket over them and trying to get to the bottom of all the tears.

It's exactly as it had been between them at the end of Louis' month-long stay, but somehow it feels different. Like they've passed the test now, like they've managed to keep the ball rolling while Louis had been away, like that means they're officially friends or something. Harry can't explain it. Maybe it's just because this doesn't have an official end date anymore. Maybe what's different is that they're free to keep this going for as long as they'd like.

He takes one last look at the thumbnails lined up along his screen before he shuts his laptop and places it on the empty cushion beside him.

"I'll look at them for real in the morning," he says quietly, "and I promise I'll try to keep an open mind."

Louis nods and reaches for the remote to turn the volume up again. "Good," he says. "Don't be so hard on yourself. I didn't fly in from another whole continent just to have you cry to me about how much you think you suck."

"And yet, I was still your first stop after you dropped your bags off at your new flat," Harry points out. "And you still followed me inside."

"Fair enough," Louis concedes. "But in all seriousness, you're alright? Just a bad couple of days?"

"My boyfriend and I might be breaking up," Harry says, "and I'm going to be working in a restaurant for the rest of my life, but yeah. Just a bad couple of days."

"I said _in all seriousness."_ Louis gives his foot a little kick. "You had me worried tonight."

"Sorry," Harry apologizes. He hadn't meant to unload on him like that. It's just that everything had built up since he'd found the check book, the shoot hadn't gone as planned, even his shift at the restaurant had been pretty awful, and then, right when he'd needed someone the most, Louis had been there for him. "I'm alright," he says, even if he isn't. "I'm... I'm glad you're back."

"Yeah?" Louis checks, voice going unbearably soft. "Not wishing I'd stayed in Chicago?"

"Nope." That's the last thing Harry would wish for tonight.

"Good," Louis says, "'cause my mattress isn't being delivered until tomorrow and I'm going to need a place to stay."

A quiet, unexpected laugh bubbles out of Harry's chest as he settles deeper into the couch, covering his shoulder with the blanket. "So you're really only here for my bed?"

Louis just presses the flat of his hand to Harry's cheek and forces his attention back to the screen. "Yeah," he says. "That's all I'm here for."

\---

"Are you going to the hospital today?" Harry asks the next morning, still drained down to his core but somehow feeling a little lighter, like he might be on the other side of the hill.

Louis rolls over to face him, maintaining the safe bit of space they've kept between them all night. He blinks at Harry, eyes only half-open. "For work or to visit Travis?"

"Visit Trav," Harry clarifies. "You haven't seen him in almost two weeks."

"Neither have you," Louis says. "And yeah, I think I might."

"Okay," Harry says quietly. He pulls at the seam on the duvet, knows he's probably going to sound like he's lost his mind when he opens his mouth again, but he digs his nail into the fabric, lets out a controlled puff of air, and does it anyway. "I think I'd like to go with you."

He watches Louis, eyes still droopy with sleep, the two of them facing each other with their heads pressed to their respective pillows, watches as he frowns, the lines in his forehead deepening with as much concern as Harry had been expecting.

"Should I be worried again?" Louis mumbles, scratching at the bit of scruff dusting his jaw.

"No," Harry answers.

"Are you thinking of injecting poison into his IVs?" Louis asks. "Smothering him with a pillow or something?"

"Well, now that you mention it..." Harry stops himself from rolling his eyes. He lifts his hand out from under the duvet just enough to rub the sleep from his eyes. Letting out a low breath, he shakes his head. "No, I mean, I should probably tell him we're taking a break, right?"

He glances over at Louis, finds him staring back, creases still lining his brow.

"I suppose it's the polite thing to do," Louis says quietly.

It's not what Harry had wanted to hear.

"You think it's a bad idea?"

"No," Louis sighs, "I didn't say that."

"It's not like I don't care about him," Harry tries to explain, because he does care. He cares a whole fucking lot. He cares so much he's driven himself to the brink of exhaustion these past two weeks trying to accept Travis' behavior for what it is enough to do just this - to want to see his boyfriend again.

Only, he hasn't accepted Travis' behavior.

And he's not sure whether Travis is his boyfriend anymore.

He's just pressed the pause button on everything. He's shoved all of his problems into a box and he's hoping it stays shut long enough to clear his head.

"You just decided last night that you're putting your relationship on hold," Louis says carefully.

"I know," Harry murmurs. He kind of wants to shove his head under his pillow and not have to think another thought ever again. "I'm just hoping it'll be different now."

"How?"

"Like maybe I can go to the hospital," Harry says, "and focus on Travis again instead of worrying myself sick trying to make sense of everything else for the sake of our relationship."

"And you really think you'll be able to stop thinking about it that easily?" Louis gives his bare shin the smallest of bumps under the covers.

"It's not going to be like flipping a switch," Harry acknowledges, nudging his leg back. "Honestly, I kind of feel like I went through an actual breakup last night, so like, I know it won't be easy."

"Well," Louis says, offering a sad, little shrug, "you sort of did go through a breakup."

"Sort of."

"Pretty much."

"I just don't know how else I'm supposed to deal with everything," Harry says.

He doesn't want to keep asking himself the same questions every day from now until the moment things change with Travis. He can't keep wondering why Travis couldn't trust him, couldn't talk to him. He can't keep making himself miserable knowing there were parts of his boyfriend that he never had the chance to understand, to accept, to love.

The break means he doesn't have to think about these things. It means he doesn't have to make sense of them, doesn't have to accept them, forgive them. It means he can take a step back and just make sure Travis is getting the care that he needs so that he can still have a chance of waking up, of making this better, of fixing it all.

"My shit's being delivered to my flat this afternoon," Louis tells him, finally sitting up in bed, the sheets and the duvet pooling around his waist. "If we leave within the next two hours, I should have plenty of time to make it to the hospital with you and back home by then."

"Is that your way of asking me to help you unpack?" Harry raises an eyebrow.

Louis just laughs softly, the over-sized t-shirt he borrowed hanging loose on his shoulders. "No, but that might be nice."

"Well, then it's a shame I have to work this afternoon," Harry mumbles into his pillow, rolling back onto his stomach.

"You don't sound too upset," Louis muses.

"That's because I'm not," Harry tells him. "Unpack your own shit."

\---

The break does not, in fact, make visiting Travis any easier.

No matter how many times Harry insists on it, he isn't fine. Maybe he's not frozen in place in his usual chair, unsure of where to look, unsure of what to say, but he's also not sitting there, telling a comatose Travis that they're taking a break without a single tremor in his voice.

He's not fine. This isn't easy. He's not crumbling apart and he hasn't yet cried, but he's not doing so well either.

After being away for two weeks, the person lying in Travis' hospital bed looks even further removed from the person Harry fell in love with. The nurses have continued to trim away at his facial hair just to keep it from his oxygen cannula, but even with a thin layer of scruff, his face is thin, cheekbones more pronounced, the warmth in his skin all but gone. He's lost weight, muscles wasting away from disuse, his already boney fingers looking more skeletal than usual. He's a shadow of himself, and all it does is reinforce Harry's notion that this Travis isn't his, that he lost his Travis in the accident.

He doesn't say much to him apart from a sad and sorry little, "Hey, Trav," when he sits beside him. He doesn't touch him, doesn't sweep his hair off his forehead, reach for his hand, adjust his lopsided hospital gown like he might have a month ago. He catches sight of himself in some of the photos lining Travis' window and feels his chest fill with resignation.

They're never going to have that again. Those moments where it's just the two of them, carefree, loved-up, _happy_ \- even if Travis wakes up, Harry can't picture them going back to that, not after everything he's learned.

And that's how he knows he's doing the right thing. This break, this hiatus, whatever Louis thinks he should call it, it's for the best. He doesn't need to make himself miserable trying to fix everything on his own when his heart isn't in it. But that doesn't mean it isn't breaking his heart to sit here and realize what he's doing. This is a three-year relationship he's putting on hold. This is the boy he's supposed to love. This is the last thing he thought he'd be doing on this grey and chilly November morning.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

"Well, this is awful," he says, because it's the only thing he can think to say to break the silence.

"Tell me about it," Louis says. "I'm not even the one breaking up with him and I still feel sick."

"I mean, you did get the ball rolling," Harry has to remind him. "If you never said anything about his past, I'd still be oblivious to everything he never told me."

Louis just rolls his eyes. "If I had known he'd never told you, I never would have opened my mouth."

"And I'd be left in the dark," Harry nods sadly, pulling his sleeves down past his hands. He watches the little heartbeats come and go on Travis' monitor for a moment, the same slow, steady pattern as the last time he'd sat in this room. "I think it's better that I know," he decides. "As much as it hurts, I'd rather deal with it all now than wait around only to find out on my own. Like, I would have found that check book eventually, you know?"

"Yeah," Louis nods. "I guess."

"And we're not breaking up," Harry insists, despite however much it might feel like they are. "We're taking a break. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"Breaking up sounds more final," he tries to explain. He's not ready for finality.

"People get back together after breaking up all the time, Harry," Louis points out.

"I know," Harry says, crossing his arms and letting his eyes jump between Louis and Travis. "I just don't want to call it that yet."

He doesn't want to do any of this.

"You want a minute alone?" Louis asks, watching him closely.

Harry shakes his head. He's been alone for the past two weeks. Being alone with Travis when Travis can't even hear him and doesn't even know he's there won't make him feel any less shitty about the whole thing.

They're taking a break.

That's all there is to it. He doesn't need to be alone to make it true. He technically doesn't even need to be here, telling Travis, to make it true. It just _is_ true. And it sucks.

An hour later, Louis passes Harry his jacket from the back of his chair and remembers to grab the umbrella that's been sitting on the windowsill since Harry had left it there two weeks ago.

"This doesn't mean we're taking a break too, does it?" he asks.

"What?" Harry frowns, slipping his arms through his jacket sleeves. "Why would it mean that?"

"Because I'm Travis' best mate," Louis says, "and your relationship with him is on hold."

"That doesn't mean ours is."

"No?"

"No," Harry promises. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He's not about to make Louis choose sides. He's not even sure there are sides to choose right now.

"Good," Louis says.

Harry nods. "Good."

\---

Being on a break feels a bit like giving up. It feels like an excuse to stop trying to unravel the tangles of his relationship with Travis. It feels like a cop-out. It feels like he just couldn't handle the pressure and decided to press pause and go outside to clear his head.

In some ways, _many_ ways, it does feel like a breakup. It feels like Harry's torn his heart out of his chest and thrown it off the side of a bridge, let it plummet to the bottom of the river and sink beneath the mud. But it's felt like that for a while now, like he had his heart ripped from his chest the moment the other car struck the side of Travis', like he threw it off the bridge on the night of his anniversary, like it'd been sinking and sinking for weeks until he'd finally declared it official, and only now is it settling at the bottom.

In other ways, it's like nothing's even changed. He's still worried about Travis. He still thinks about him, still cares. He even goes back to visit him in the hospital after a few days, all on his own. The only thing that's different now is that he can breathe a little better again. He can look at Travis and not know his full story, not know how to reconcile his relationship with the information he's acquired recently, and he can go on knowing that that's okay.

Maybe this is him forgiving. Or maybe he's just too tired to figure out how to process this any other way.

"Does this mean you're allowed to see other people now?" Niall asks from the floor of Louis' bedroom where they've been trying to assemble his bed frame for the past half hour.

Harry finishes screwing two of the pieces together before he turns to glare at Niall. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"What?" Niall throws his hands up in his defense. "It's a genuine question. You're taking a break. You're kind of single now, aren't you?"

"Kind of," Harry crinkles his nose. "I don't know. I guess."

"You guess?"

"Leave him alone, Niall," Louis sighs, glancing up from the instructions. "Whatever he is, he's clearly not thinking of dating anyone else at the moment. That's probably the last thing on his mind right now."

It most definitely is.

"Thanks," Harry murmurs before picking up the next section of the frame. He can't believe Louis' just been sleeping with his mattress on the floor all week. He's still got half his boxes packed and sitting in the living room, all of his clothes still spilling out of his three suitcases. He'd started his new job at Travis' hospital on Monday and hasn't had a moment to stop and get his flat together since.

"What about you then, Tommo?" Niall asks, reaching for another slice of pizza from the box between them. "You're single."

"I am," Louis agrees and tries to leave it at that.

"Meet anyone nice at your new job?"

"Everyone's nice, Niall. And almost none of them are my type."

"What about the doctors?" Niall asks.

Harry can't help but roll his eyes.

"I don't date doctors," Louis says. "And I don't date coworkers."

"Why are you so interested in us being single?" Harry can't help but ask as he searches the floor for the screws he's supposed to use for the next bit.

Louis tosses him a new plastic bag full of them and lets out a little laugh.

"I think he's waiting for one of us to ask him out," he muses.

"Oh, right," Harry nods. "Makes sense."

"When was the last time you had sex, Niall?"

Niall flips him off. "I'm not going to answer that and I wouldn't be caught dead on a date with either of you wankers."

"I had sex just last week," Louis ignores him. "Harry?"

"The morning of the accident," Harry supplies easily enough. It's part of the reason they'd been running late on their way to the airport.

"So a month and a half ago."

"Correct."

"And you've been single for how long, Niall?"

Niall swallows the bite of pizza in his mouth and gives his head a hard shake. "Eight months, and I hate the both of you. I'm only trying to have a conversation here. What would you prefer we talk about?"

"Football."

"Puppies."

"I saw you did a photoshoot," Niall says instead, which... yeah, Harry doesn't want to talk about that either. It took him long enough to select a photo worth releasing to the world - mainly his Instagram following - he'd kind of hoped to never hear any mention of that shoot ever again.

"How about we talk about puppies instead?" Louis tries. "How do you feel about puppies, Harold?"

"I quite like them," Harry says.

"Me too."

"Are we not allowed to talk about the photoshoot either?" Niall interrupts with a frown. "Because you killed it, Harry. I was reading the comments on that photo you posted the other day, and everyone loves it."

Harry lifts his head and meets Louis' gaze, and Louis just nods.

"Yeah?" Harry asks, not yet ready to believe them. He hasn't checked any of the comments yet. He really hadn't been planning on looking at them ever.

"Yeah," Louis tells him as if it should be obvious. "It's a great photo. What else did you expect?"

"I don't know," Harry says. "Not that?" He sets his screwdriver on the floorboards and searches the room for his phone. It's on the edge of Louis' mattress where he'd thrown it at the start of this endeavor. "Can you pass me my phone?" he asks. "I want to make sure you're not lying to me to save what's left of my ego."

Louis shakes his head. "Later," he says. "You have to build me a bed."

"And you have to help," Niall says.

"I'm reading the instructions."

"Just leave him to it," Harry tells Niall before Niall can start to argue with Louis. "He'd probably fuck something up anyway."

"Hey," Louis complains. "I resent that."

"Then get off your arse and help," Niall says, crumpling up a spare bit of packing paper and pelting it at Louis' head.

To both of their surprise, Louis does. He slips off the end of his mattress and shuffles along on his knees to where Harry's started screwing the headboard together.

"Here," Harry says, passing him the other screwdriver, their fingers brushing when he moves to let go. "You work on that end and I'll do this one. Just make sure the screws are tight or it'll fall apart if you so much as sneeze in the middle of the night."

"Sounds sturdy."

"You'll be fine," Niall promises.

"I have an idea," Louis says. "Why don't the both of you sleep in this bed tonight just to make sure, and I'll sleep out there on my brand new couch?"

Harry glances up, locks eyes with Niall across the room and lets out a quiet laugh.

"I think we're good," he says, getting back to work. "Thanks for the generous offer, but we'll let you test it yourself."

Louis finishes tightening the screw he's been twisting into place and sighs. "Maybe I'll just stick with the mattress on the floor. I don't really need a bed frame, do I?"

Harry takes a quick look around the room, at how simultaneously empty and disheveled it looks without any substantial furniture but also with all of Louis' boxes of crap thrown all over the place. He needs a bed frame. He needs to make this look like an actual adult lives there, not like one of the lads moved in straight out of uni.

"You need a bed frame," Harry says. "And you need to finish unpacking."

"Tomorrow," Louis says. "I'll unpack tomorrow. Happy?"

"Yes," Harry nods. "Now please give me that. You're already doing it wrong."

Louis huffs out a frustrated little breath and hands him the section he'd been working on. "Told you I was better off reading the instructions."

"And I believed you," Harry says. "It was Niall we couldn't convince."

"Remind me again why I thought it would be a good idea to invite him?" Louis asks.

Niall throws another ball of packing paper at Louis' face. "You're an arse," he says. "And this new little friendship thing the two of you have where you gang up on me? It's not cute."

"Sounds like jealousy to me," Louis says.

He gets a bag of screws chucked at his chest for that. Harry reckons he deserves it.

\---

"Mmm, this is comfy," he hums much later that night as he sinks his face into Louis' pillow, flopped facedown on his mattress, now a respectable distance off the floor. He feels a hand come down on his backside and recoil so quickly he's not sure it even happened. "That was my bum," he mutters, cracking an eye open and turning to face Louis.

"Yeah," Louis says, pausing to clear his throat, his eyes wide and cheeks turning an amusing shade of pink. "For some reason, I thought you were a lot further down the bed. That was me trying to pat your back."

"Like a dog?" Harry wrinkles his nose.

"Like a good boy," Louis snorts, "for putting my bed together properly."

"Did you really just pat his arse?" Niall laughs tiredly from Harry's other side.

"He did," Harry confirms. "Maybe he'll pat yours too if you scoot a little closer."

He tries to shift into the gap of space between himself and Louis, but there's not much room left. Niall doesn't even budge.

"You'll just have to pat it for me, Harry," Louis says, and Harry watches his eyes flutter shut again, all three of them exhausted from not only assembling the bed frame, but also the kitchen table, the kitchen chairs, the bookshelf, and the coffee table.

"I think I might actually sleep here tonight," Niall says, "if the offer still stands."

"That's fine with me," Louis says. "Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you sleeping here?"

"Oh." Harry squeezes an arm out from between them to slip his phone from his back pocket and check the time. It's late, but it's not too late that he can't get home if he needs to. "I don't know. Tube's still running."

"Just stay," Niall tells him. "This way we don't have to worry about you getting home tonight."

"Yeah?" Harry checks, turning to face Louis again. "Are we all going to sleep here in your bed?"

"The more people testing it, the better," Louis shrugs. "Niall's right. You should stay."

"Okay," Harry concedes. He'll stay.

\---

Travis' parents come down to visit that weekend. It's only the second time they've returned since their initial stay. Harry doesn't see them. He finds out from Louis after Louis bumps into them during his shift. They don't ask about Harry. They don't know what's going on between him and their son. They stay with Travis during all of visiting hours, and then they get on the next train and go back to Doncaster, and that's all Harry hears about it.

"They're not even staying the full weekend?" he asks, his phone perched on his nightstand, Louis on speaker.

"Did you expect them to?" Louis' crackly voice echoes around the room.

"No," Harry shrugs as he unbuttons his work shirt and throws it in his laundry basket. "But they made the trip down here, why not stay an extra day?"

"I don't know," Louis answers. "I didn't really have much time to talk to them. Nor did I really want to."

"Why not?" Harry teases. "They're such lovely people. Too busy saving lives?"

"I have to make a good first impression at work, don't I?"

"I'm sure the hospital loves you already."

"Speaking of which..." Louis starts as Harry gets his head stuck in a hoodie.

"Hang on."

"Sorry?"

"I said 'hang on,'" Harry repeats a bit louder, voice muffled by the thick fabric. He feels around the top of his head until he finds the opening and manages to unstick himself. "Okay, sorry. My head got stuck in my hoodie."

"You're an idiot."

"You were saying?" Harry asks.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to go out with me and some of my coworkers later this week," Louis tells him, "but now I'm not so sure. I mean, if you can't even get yourself dressed properly, how can I trust you won't embarrass me in front of all of them?"

Harry adjusts his hair before picking his phone back up and taking Louis off speaker.

"Go out where?" he asks, ignoring the little jab. "I'm not exactly made of money these days."

"Just a pub," Louis tells him, "nothing special. You don't even have to eat anything. Just come for a drink, make it look like I have friends other than the one whose arse some of them have had to actually wipe. It'll only be for an hour or two."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"Harry, please."

Harry hesitates in his doorway, about to make a cup of tea and try not to fall asleep reading the book he'd picked up from the library. He really can't afford many more nights out this month, even if he only has the one drink. He's been trying to cook more of his own meals this week, take any leftovers home from the restaurant whenever his boss gives him the opportunity. He's even taken to lowering the heat in his flat a degree or two and bundling up instead to save on his bills. An evening at the pub won't kill him, but he really, _really,_ can only have the one drink.

"Alright, I'll go," he says, "but only because I want you to look cool for your new coworkers."

Louis just lets out a quiet laugh. "Thank you. That's all I'm asking for."

\---

It takes a bit of rescheduling and begging Abby to trade shifts with him, but Harry manages to get his arse to the pub just as everyone starts in on their first round. It's easy to spot them, Louis and five of his coworkers squeezed into one of the booths near the back. He only looks a little out of place, nervously fidgeting with his phone on the table, an empty space left beside him for Harry to presumably fill. But anyone might look out of place surrounded by people they've only known for a short week and a half.

Before joining them, Harry squeezes over to the bar and flags the bartender down to place his order, charging it to his credit card and closing out his tab before it can even officially exist. As he waits for his beer, he feels Louis come up next to him and bump him with his elbow to get his attention.

"Hi."

"Hi," Harry replies, turning to face him. "Sorry I'm late, I just had to sell my soul to Abby to get her to switch shifts with me."

"The appropriate price for a night out with me and my coworkers," Louis nods. "How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"Having no soul," Louis says.

"Oh," Harry smirks. "I figured you'd already know, considering..."

Louis crosses his arms. "Considering what?"

"You know," Harry shrugs, silently thanking the bartender when he sets his drink down for him. "Considering you don't have one either."

He takes a sip, a small sip, knows he has to make this last, and enjoys the bit of amusement that flickers behind Louis' eyes.

"Fair enough," Louis says with a quiet laugh. "Come on, I need to introduce you to everyone. Let's hope I remember their names."

"You've known them for a week," Harry points out. "How do you not know their names yet?"

"You'll see," Louis says, and leads Harry over to their booth where he's met with five sets of curious eyes all blinking back at him expectantly.

Harry recognizes two of them. He's never really spoken to them, but he's seen them around Travis' floor. He's pretty sure they've both been in Travis' room, checking his vitals or taking care of Travis in some form or other while he's been slouched over in the guest chair watching a movie on Travis' television. He sees the recognition mirrored in their eyes as well.

"Everyone, this is Harry," Louis introduces him as he falls back into his seat and lets Harry settle beside him. "And Harry, this is-" He takes a steadying breath. "Evie, Michael, Cara, Clara, and Karina."

He pauses for a second to make sure no one corrects him, and when no one does, he relaxes into the booth and essentially hands Harry over to them.

"You're with the Lowell guy, aren't you?" Evie asks. "Travis, right? The one in the coma?"

" _Evie,"_ Karina scolds, rolling her eyes before Harry can answer. "You're really going to jump right into that? The boy literally just got here."

"I'm just asking," Evie says, though she does throw Harry an apologetic look, her cheeks slightly flushed. "Sorry," she adds, "it's just that I've seen you around a few times. We never officially met or anything. Usually you're asleep when I come in to check on Travis."

"Oh, that's you?" Michael jumps in, leaning over the table to see around Louis. "You're the one who's always snoring in there? You're the boyfriend in all the photos?"

And despite not really knowing how to answer that question anymore, Harry lets out a nervous laugh and nods, because he's not about to try to explain it. "That's me, yeah," he says. "Though I'm not sure about the snoring. Maybe that was Louis you heard."

"No, it was definitely you," Louis is quick to deny.

"Really?" Harry furrows his brow. "Because Travis never once mentioned my snoring."

"That's because he's in a coma, darling."

"I meant while he was awake."

"Right," Louis nods, "well, there's a lot he never mentioned to you, and you snoring is definitely on that list."

"Is it really that bad?" Evie asks amused.

Harry shakes his head. "No."

"It is," Louis insists. "Don't listen to him. He wouldn't know, would he? He's never heard himself fall asleep halfway through a film. Like a fucking buzzsaw, he is."

"That's 'cause I've got my head tilted back when I'm watching the telly," Harry argues. "When I'm actually asleep in my bed, I'm quiet as a mouse. I sleep on my stomach. People don't snore when they're on their stomach."

"People shouldn't sleep on their stomachs," Louis tells him, though Harry knows for a fact that he falls asleep on his, therefore his point is moot.

"It's bad for your neck," Michael adds.

The other four nurses nod in agreement, because of course they do. They're nurses.

"And yet, I bet half of you do it anyway," Harry accuses, staring straight at Louis.

Louis just shrugs, daring Harry to fight him. "What of it?"

"Nothing," Harry sighs. "You're just insufferable."

He takes a sip of his beer, wishes he could drink for real tonight.

"Anyway," Louis continues, ignoring him. "I met Harry through Travis and he hasn't left me alone since. Feel free to plug his nose or cover his mouth if you ever hear him snoring throughout the ICU."

"Or just say hi," Harry counters, though he's not sure how often they'll catch him there anymore. He's been trying to keep up with his visits, but they just feel a bit impersonal now, a little odd, like he's not supposed to be there anymore even if he's still allowed, even if he's trying to _want_ to be there. Breaks are weird. They're uncomfortable. That's what Harry's learned from this so far.

"Is it strange working at the same hospital that your best mate's a patient in?" Clara asks, directing the question at Louis but letting her eyes drift between him and Harry.

"I don't know about _strange,"_ Louis answers, "but it is convenient."

"You're not allowed to have him as a patient, are you?" Evie asks.

"Of course he's not," Katrina sighs. "We're not allowed to go anywhere near family or friends while we're working. Remember what happened with Rebecca?"

"Was she the one with the blinking lights on her trainers?"

"No, that was Penny," Michael says with a quiet snort. "Rebecca had the short blonde hair. She had that sick tattoo up her entire spine."

"How have you managed to see her _entire_ spine?" Evie asks, pulling a face. "Did you and her...?"

"Christ, no," Michael quickly denies, with a disgusted shake of his head. "No, no, I just saw it coming out the collar of her shirt once. She pulled it up in back to show me the rest. God, no, we didn't hook up."

"Sure you didn't," Evie deadpans, clearly not believing a word he says.

Katrina gives her a little nudge to shut up.

"As I was _saying,"_ she starts in again, and Harry listens as she leads into a long story about a nurse that had previously worked at the hospital, who'd ended up treating one of her own family members against the hospital's orders and nearly killed them in the process.

Louis tries to keep up with it, Harry can tell he's struggling a little with the names again, but it's workplace gossip, tales and stories, and if these people are willing to share them with Louis, then Harry reckons they at least like him enough to treat him as one of their own.

And it's nice, being able to sit back and listen, just enjoy the sound of other people talking without needing to participate for once, especially when there's drama involved. It's nice watching Louis find his footing within their group, contribute when he can, offer an outside perspective, try to follow along when inside jokes and other stories are being thrown left and right.

Louis holds his own. He gets everyone laughing with a few witty comments tossed into the mix every now and again, and every time he says something even remotely amusing, he glances over at Harry as if to check that what he's said is actually funny, as if Harry's approval is what matters tonight, and as if the five other people at their table aren't the ones he's really trying to win over.

It's rather cute.

"Hey," he says to Harry halfway through the night. "You having fun?"

"Yeah," Harry replies. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Louis nods in agreement, small smile creeping its way onto his face. "Want to go outside with me for a quick smoke?"

And even though it's fucking cold outside and even though Harry isn't up for burning his lungs to a crisp at the moment, he slips out of the booth, grabs his coat, and follows Louis onto the street.

Louis lights up immediately, huddled against the outside of the pub, the collar of his jacket folded up towards his ears. He's had three drinks so far. Harry can barely tell apart from the mild flush to his cheeks, the way he'd fumbled with his lighter for a second longer than usual.

"I like your new friends," he says, nodding back inside though the window. "They seem alright."

"They do, don't they?" Louis notes. "Evie can be a bit out there at times, but I think they're all decent people at heart. It makes me wish you'd met my Chicago friends. They were quite the bunch."

_"Are,"_ Harry corrects with a quiet laugh. "They _are_ quite the bunch. They're not dead, Louis. You can still visit them."

"Or they could visit me."

"Or that," Harry allows.

"Travis got to meet them when he came to visit," Louis says, crossing one arm over his chest and lowering his cigarette to his side. "I'm pretty sure one of my friends made a fool of herself trying to hit on him. She only stopped when he mentioned you, but _god,_ I wish I could have seen her face when he told her."

"Do you miss them?" Harry asks. It's only been two weeks, but he can already hear it in the way Louis' talking about them. This new batch of nurses has swept him up, taken him under their wings without any problem, like he's been with them for ages by now, but out here, under the black sky with the smell of smoke stale in the frigid air, he knows Louis is missing his Chicago friends tonight.

"I'll see them again some day," Louis says with a small, non-committed shrug, avoiding any real answer.

"Should I take that as a yes?" Harry asks, heart giving a twinge of sympathy.

Louis lets out a long puff of smoke before shaking his head.

"No," he says, flicking a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette. "I mean, I do miss them - they're hard not to miss - but I think it was time for me to come back home. I had my four years of fun. I got to go out there, start over, create a new life in a foreign city. I think I'm ready to just... I don't know... _settle down_ now."

Harry peers up at him, a little surprised. He hasn't exactly thought of Louis as the _settling down_ type. A new city, new job, new friends, and a new flat don't really scream stability, calm, permanence. Maybe this is his start, his beginning, where the anchor gets lowered, where he wants his roots to sprout and grow.

"That's very adult of you," Harry says. "I feel like this is the least settled I've ever been in my entire life."

"Well, same here," Louis says with a quiet laugh. "I'm not, like, ready to go out, get married and have children tomorrow. I want that, of course I do, but I figured if I'm going to start thinking about all of that, I might as well be closer to home, somewhere I'd want to stay."

"So you're not regretting the move just yet?"

"Not yet," Louis says. "And, just so you know, you're allowed to not be settled right now. You're practically still a baby. You've got time."

"I'm only two years younger than you," Harry huffs.

"And you just lost someone to a coma," Louis says, and he drops his cigarette on the floor so he can count on his fingers. "You're still working on landing another job. You're kind of going through a break up. You were in the car accident yourself. Your temporary roommate just moved out. And-"

"Alright, alright," Harry says, grabbing Louis' hands and folding his fingers between them so he can stop counting. "I get the point. I'm allowed to be unsettled. I'd just really love it if I weren't."

"Join the fucking club," Louis says, and rearranges their hands a bit until they're holding onto each other instead of Harry just crushing his fingers. "Shall we go back inside?"

"Yes, please," Harry nods. "I'm fucking freezing."

"Will you be pissed at me if I buy you another drink?"

"Only a little," Harry concedes.

"I can live with that," Louis says. He latches onto Harry's fingers, links them together, and pulls him back inside.

The rest of the night flows from one drink, to two, to three as Harry somehow gets passed Louis' barely touched glasses, Louis claiming not to like the selection he's made for himself. Harry rolls his eyes at him each time, a little annoyed, _yes,_ that he's fallen victim to Louis' pity, but not about to turn down a perfectly decent beer when it's slid in front of him along the table.

"Louis, you're going to get the poor boy drunk if you keep forcing beers down his throat like that."

"Yeah, Louis," Harry agrees as he pushes another empty glass to the center of the table, feeling much warmer than before, and much more ready to go home and fall asleep. "You're going to get me drunk."

"Are you not already?" Louis asks, eyebrow raised.

"No," Harry tells him. "But keep it up and I certainly will be."

He's fine. He's tipsy, sure, and everything seems a little less awful, but then again, it's just felt a little less awful in general since Louis has returned, alcohol or not.

"I think that's all we have for tonight," Louis tells him, cheeks a little rosy, looking quite tipsy himself. He keeps leaning into Harry's side, their elbows bumping together of their own accord, ankles hooked around each other to give their feet more room. For the past fifteen minutes, Harry's head has been fighting this magnetic pull towards Louis' shoulder, his eyelids getting heavier, limbs loose and pliant and about five hundred pounds each. It's late. Everyone has to go to work the next day. They should probably wait outside for a cab. "You ready to go home?"

"I think that would be a good idea," Harry says with a tired, quiet laugh. "Any more beer from you and I might start to worry you're trying to take advantage of me."

"Advantage of your bed, maybe," Louis says. "It _is_ a shorter drive back to your place."

"Barely," Harry scoffs. "Besides, I thought I was a dreadful snorer."

"He has a point," Katrina nods, pulling her wallet from her handbag to go pay off her tab.

Cara and Clara have already gathered up their belongings next to her, everyone else finishing their drinks and picking at whatever food is left on the table.

"Fair enough," Louis allows. He goes to slip his own card from his wallet, and as soon as Harry gets ready to promise him he'll pay him back eventually, Louis shuts him up by slapping a hand over his mouth. "Don't even try it, Styles. I'm still paying you back for all of October."

"But-" Harry tries, except his voice is too muffled to say much else.

"But nothing," Louis insists. He gives Harry's cheeks a squeeze before lowering his hand. "Mind getting up so I can go pay?"

As he goes up to the bar to settle their bill for them, the rest of the group slides out of the booth, coats draped over their arms and bags hanging off of shoulders, everyone getting ready to go as well. They pull Harry - and Louis, once he returns - in for hugs, each of them leaning in for quick kisses on each cheek as if this isn't the first night they've ever even spoken, as if they've all known each other for quite some time by now.

It catches Harry off guard. He fumbles, face heating up, Louis laughing at him from behind.

"Sorry," he apologizes to Cara and Evie as Louis reciprocates his two kisses without missing a beat.

It's because they're his coworkers, Harry tells himself. They're his coworkers and he suspects this isn't an uncommon thing amongst Louis' new group of friends.

"What was _that?"_ Louis cackles at him as soon as they're settled in the back of a cab and headed home.

"You're impossible," Harry just sighs, shaking his head. "I barely know them. _You_ barely know them. I'm lucky I didn't accidentally go the wrong way and kiss one of them on the mouth."

"Mmm, that would have been a sight," Louis snorts. "It's like you've never said goodbye to anyone in your entire life. And _I'm_ the one who just spent four years living in a country where no one hardly ever kisses anyone goodbye ever."

"They caught me by surprise," Harry insists.

"Alright, weirdo," Louis laughs.

And despite all of the teasing and Harry spending the remainder of the ride back to his flat wondering if he might actually be more drunk than he'd originally thought, he's still not ready for it when Louis leans across the back seat to give him a hug goodbye and, like the arse Louis is, goes to kiss him on both cheeks just to get a rise out of him.

"Oh, fuck off," Harry swears, but he's laughing when he pushes Louis away from him and denies him another kiss. "Get your face out of here."

"Gladly," Louis says with a cocky little smirk. "Night, Styles."

It still rattles something in Harry's chest, hearing Louis call him that after hearing it from Travis all these years. But he gives Louis a short wave, climbs the rest of the way out of the cab, and doesn't let it get to him when he shuts the door and goes up to his flat, feeling warmer than he has in a long while.

\---

"Explain to me again why you're still going to the hospital, even when you and Travis are _taking a break."_

Harry zips his bag shut, work clothes folded up inside of it, and grabs his coat off the hook. "I don't know," he mumbles, slipping his arms through the sleeves. "It just seems like the right thing to do."

"Does it?" Niall asks. He sets an armful of used plates beside the sink and turns the tap on to wash his hands. "If he were awake and you two were going through this break thing, would you still be seeing him?"

Harry rolls his eyes. He knows where this is going.

"No," he says.

"Then how is this any different?"

"First of all, he's not awake," Harry points out. "Second of all, it just _is."_

He doesn't know how to explain it. Even with all the shit Travis had been keeping from him, even with everything he'd never said, Harry just doesn't have the heart to walk away completely, not when Travis is as sick as he is, not when he hardly has anyone there for him. His own parents won't even stick around. What would that say about Harry if he abandoned Travis as well?

"I just worry about you," Niall says after drying his hands. "You're already wearing yourself thin, Harry. Don't force yourself to see him if it's affecting your mental health."

"It's not," Harry insists. Maybe it's not the easiest thing, going back to that room and seeing Travis in his bed like that every few days, but he's sure it would take even more out of him if he stopped going altogether and let the guilt creep up and wrap its prickly vines around his heart, his lungs, his throat. He can handle this. What he can't handle is a full-on relationship, and what he can't handle is cutting Travis out completely.

\---

He arrives at the hospital mid-afternoon after his early shift at the restaurant, bundled up in a hat and scarf, his fingers keeping warm in his pockets, rucksack full of work clothes on his back. One of his smaller cameras is in there, too. He'd packed it on a whim that morning, thinking maybe he'd have time after his hospital visit to find something worth photographing on his way home. The sun's been out all day. By the time he leaves, it'll be low in the sky, everything glowing or cast in long, deep shadows, his favorite lighting for outdoor photography.

But after half an hour of reading a book at Travis' bedside and trying to figure out whether or not he's already read it, he pulls out his camera and starts playing around with the settings.

"Reckon I'll get in trouble for taking pictures in here?" he asks, not bothering to glance up from the display screen. It's not like Travis is going to answer anyway. "I mean, you're not going to be in them. That might be a bit morbid, but, like. All your tubes and shit." He has to let out a quiet, sad laugh. "Trav, the light is hitting them perfectly right now."

This is apparently what he doesn't get to see when he works most afternoons.

"Don't mind me," he says, and starts repositioning Travis' various fluid bags ever so slightly to get a better angle on things. "You always did say you loved watching me work."

He glances over his shoulder to make sure none of the hospital staff are hovering in the doorway, ready to ask him to please stop what he's doing.

"Plus, your awful green walls kind of fit my style perfectly," he adds as he holds the camera up to one eye and starts lining up the first shot. "Imagine if these pictures end up being my breakthrough. Wouldn't that be a slap in the face. It's not even a real photoshoot."

But that doesn't stop him from taking his time, snapping shots at different angles, treating it as if it is a real photoshoot. Except it isn't. And he can feel it. There's no pressure to get it _just right_. There's no one to disappoint. There's no one to even watch.

It's just him and his camera and no expectations.

This should have been his first photoshoot back. This is how he should have restarted things. On his own terms. No obligations. Not even a real motive behind it. Not with a living, breathing model trying to read his emotions, and not with the set designer looming around behind him.

"What are you doing?"

Harry only jumps slightly, his camera still held to his face. He steadies himself, gets the shot looking straight up from the base of Travis' IV pole, and maneuvers his way off of the floor.

"I'm suing the hospital," he deadpans to Louis, letting his camera settle around his neck as he gets up from his knees and dusts his trousers off. "Thought I'd take some photos for evidence."

"That's definitely what it looked like," Louis nods. "But what were you _really_ doing?"

"Just taking pictures," Harry says with a small shrug. "The lighting was really good and I'm pretty sure I've already read the book I brought."

"So you thought you'd do a little hospital photoshoot?"

"Yeah," Harry says a little sheepishly. "Is that okay?"

"Is Travis in any of them?" Louis asks, coming further into the room. He's still in his scrubs and trainers, but his coat his draped over his arm and he's got a cup of coffee in his hand. His shift must have just ended.

"No," Harry says. "That would be a little weird, wouldn't it?"

"Not that it's breaking any hospital rules or anything," Louis says, "but yeah. I don't recommend taking photos of people in comas. Bit creepy."

"Mhmm," Harry nods in agreement before lifting his camera to snap a quick shot of Louis.

The flash goes off right in his face and he's left blinking at Harry, frozen on the spot.

"Was that necessary?"

"Oh, absolutely," Harry snorts as he takes a peek at the resulting photo on the camera's screen. "Gorgeous. Stunning. You'll make someone very happy one day."

"Give me that." Louis reaches for the camera, but Harry lifts it out of the way and takes another photo.

"Just as beautiful as the last," he says before shutting it off and setting it down on Travis' table. "Did you just finish working?"

Louis nods. "Just thought I'd come say hi for a minute," he says. "Trav looks good today. I see someone fixed his hair."

"Yeah, it was like that when I came in," Harry says. "No more wonky curl in the front."

"Are you working tonight?" Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head.

"Want to come over and help me cook real food?"

"By _real,_ do you mean not made in a microwave?" Harry has to ask. "Like, made on a stove or in the oven?"

"Yes," Louis says. "That is what I mean."

"Someone's getting brave tonight," Harry teases, digging the lens cap out of his pocket and snapping it back onto his camera. "But sure, I would love to help you not burn down your flat."

\---

He goes through the photos from the hospital the following morning, sitting up in his bed with a steaming cup of coffee on his nightstand, his hair wet from his shower, butt naked under his extra blankets with his towel hanging off the doorknob.

It's still strange, being alone like this, having the flat to himself, not sharing with a boyfriend or a boyfriend's best friend, but he's getting used to it. He's figuring it out. He's realizing it means he can do things like this - not that he'd ever been shy about his own nudity around Travis - but that he can wake up when he's ready, maybe have a lazy wank in the shower, put on some soft tunes, take his time, be in his own head while he works, and not have to worry about anyone interrupting him.

Plus, his photos have actually come out alright this time. They're usable, workable. He wouldn't say they're anything extraordinary considering they hadn't been taken on an actual set and were kind of just thrown together on the spot, but he's not ready to slam his head in the door over these today, and that's saying something.

He sends Louis the blurry photos he'd snapped of him, Louis' eyes half closed in one, his mouth hanging open and his hand moving towards the camera in the other.

_Best looking nurse in that entire hospital_ , he writes.

He uses the rest of his morning to edit some of his favorites and post them to his Instagram before he heads to the restaurant. There's a sad sort of melancholy to them, the simplicity a little eerie. His followers who know him personally must know the photos were taken in Travis' room. Harry doesn't mind. He likes them. They feel more authentic than the tile photoshoot, than the cat in his shower. They feel like they actually mean something.

\---

"Can I ask you an odd question?"

Harry pauses, hand outstretched and on its way to scratch behind Liam's puppy's ears where she's sitting in Louis' lap. He glances behind the couch, checks that Liam and Niall are still struggling to twist open the same jar of salsa they've been working on for the past five minutes, and shrugs, hesitant.

"What do you mean by odd?" he asks Louis, enjoying the way the dog's mouth opens and her eyes fall half-shut as he strokes the top of her head.

"Like, I'd have no problem bringing this up with Travis," Louis tries to explain, "but he's obviously unavailable, and I'm not sure if we're at the point in our friendship where we can talk about shit like this."

"Is this, like, a _love_ thing," is the first thing Harry can think of. "Do you fancy someone at work?"

Louis furrows his brow, pulling the dog closer, away from Harry's hand. "No. Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," Harry says. "You're being weird"

"Only because you're making it weird," Louis frowns. "Besides, didn't I tell you I don't date coworkers? It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?" Harry asks.

"Well, it wasn't going to be weird until you went and made it weird," Louis says, getting defensive, "and I don't think it was even that weird to ask in the first place, but I was just going to say that they were talking after work today-"

"Who's _they?"_ Harry has to interrupt.

"Some of my nurse friends," Louis sighs, giving Harry's outstretched arm a little kick and unintentionally jostling the dog. "Sorry, Ivy. Anyway, they were talking, and someone was saying how they were taking their boyfriend home to meet their parents over Christmas, and how it was going to suck not being able to have sex with them the entire week they were going to be there."

Harry stares at him from across the couch, trying to figure out where Louis could possibly be going with this. "I don't understand the question."

"I didn't ask it yet, you wanker," Louis says.

"Is this actually what you and Travis talk about?"

"Please shut your mouth."

"Okay."

"Right," Louis nods. "So I asked my coworker why staying with their parents meant they couldn't have sex-"

"A valid question."

"Good, I'm glad you agree," Louis says, "except everyone else was looking at me like I'd just admitted to killing puppies."

_"What?"_ Harry asks, his first instinct telling him to cover Ivy's ears. "Have none of them had sex in their parents' house? In the houses they grew up in?"

"Apparently not," Louis shrugs, equally baffled.

"Have you?"

The question falls out of Harry's mouth before he has the chance to stop and think about what he's asking. Louis has said it himself - Travis basically grew up in his house. They were sleeping with each other while they were both still home before uni. Harry would bet anything that they'd had sex in Louis' bedroom at least once.

"I mean, apart from the obvious," Louis says, throwing Harry an apologetic, little grimace as he confirms his suspicions. "I've taken boyfriends home to meet my family over the years. We usually waited for everyone to be well and fast asleep or out of the house, but yeah. Of course we had sex. Have you?"

Harry nods. He has. With Travis and with other boyfriends. He pulls his hands away from Ivy's head, but not before he gets a quick lick on the underside of his wrist. "Were we not supposed to?"

"I don't know," Louis shrugs. "What about sex in public? And I'm not talking about like full-on, out in the open like you're in some sort of porno sex, but like a handjob in the loo type of thing."

"Yeah," Harry snorts, "I was a photography student with a dark room at my disposal. I trust you can use your imagination."

"Kinky."

"Resourceful," Harry counters.

"So, I'm not, like, a sex freak for thinking these things are perfectly normal and acceptable?" Louis checks.

"Not unless I am, too," Harry shrugs. "And I happen to think I'm rather vanilla when it comes to sex."

"Missionary every time?" Louis teases, throwing him a lopsided smirk. "Lights off, under the covers?"

"Fuck off."

"I bet you call it _making love,"_ Louis adds.

Harry gives his ankle a pinch. "Like hell, I do. I said _vanilla_ , not _boring."_

Louis raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Isn't it convenient how the only one who can vouch for you is in a coma?"

"If that's a convenience," Harry rolls his eyes, "then I've been going about this all wrong."

He scoops Liam's puppy out of Louis' arms and into his lap, taking it in stride when the dog tries to jump up and give his face a good, wet kiss. At least someone loves him.

"I bet Liam wouldn't have sex in his parents' house," Louis throws out there before he or Niall can come back into the room. Harry's pretty sure they're still trying to force open the salsa jar, either that or they've given up and are just eating the tortilla chips at the table without them.

"Are you going to ask?" he says, maneuvering the puppy until she's sitting comfortably.

"He's going to think I'm prepositioning him," Louis sighs. "I can already tell."

"Prepositioning who?" Niall asks as he comes back into the room with a massive bowl of popcorn and a bag of tortilla chips. "Found yourself someone special already?"

"Who?" Liam asks, following him with the salsa. "Louis? Has Louis got a date?"

"No, you tossers," Louis sighs. "There was a discussion after work today about having sex in your parents' house. Like, as an adult who doesn't live there anymore."

"Oh," Liam says, crinkling his nose as he takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "People do that? I don't even think I could get it up if I knew my family was on the other side of the door. I'd be too afraid of getting caught."

Louis doesn't have to say anything. He just catches Harry's eye and shoots him a knowing look that has Harry fighting back a laugh as he lets the puppy go and scoots over to give Niall room to sit.

"I see you managed to get the jar open," Harry notes. "Only took you five minutes."

"You can thank me for that," Niall says.

"He's so strong," Louis comments.

Harry nods. _"So_ strong."

"Been going to the gym, Niall?"

"Show us those guns," Harry eggs him on.

Niall just throws a handful of popcorn at them. "Will the two of you shut up?"

"Oi, watch the dog," Liam scolds them as he lifts Ivy up to keep her from going after the food. "Can someone start the movie?"

"I got it," Harry says and reaches for the remote on the coffee table, shifting forwards on the couch and allowing Louis to pick the remaining popcorn pieces out of the cushions behind him. It takes him a couple of seconds to find the correct button, but he finally locates it and manages to press play just as Louis pushes at his arse in an attempt to unstick an errant kernel from underneath it.

"I think that's the last one," he says.

"Thanks," Harry replies with a short laugh. "Though I'm pretty sure you just wanted an excuse to touch my butt again."

"And here I thought I was being sneaky," Louis sighs as he deposits the handful of pieces onto an unused plate. He leans back into the corner of the couch, angling himself just enough for Harry to fit against his side.

He's very warm.

"You're very warm," Harry tells him quietly.

"Too warm?" Louis whispers. "Like, fever warm?"

He squeezes his arm out from between them to feel his own forehead. Harry grabs his hand, lowers it.

"No," he laughs. "Comfortable warm. Good warm."

To his left, Liam clears his throat.

"Are you two going to flirt through the entire film?" he asks. "Or should we reschedule this for another night?"

Harry's insides do an odd flip. He feels Louis stiffen beside him. Slowly, they let go of each other's hands.

"Sorry," Harry apologizes, his voice scraping off his vocal cords. He swallows, doesn't know why it feels like he's been caught doing something bad, doesn't know why it feels like he's in trouble. The movie's only just started, it's not like they've been talking over anything but the opening credits.

"We were just having a laugh," Louis mutters, "but sure, Liam, be an arse about it."

"Louis," Liam sighs.

But Louis just shifts further into the corner of the couch, leaving a barely noticeable space between himself and Harry that hadn't been there before. "Careful or you'll interrupt the movie," he says.

That shuts all of them up.

As the first bit of dialogue gets going on the screen, Harry tries to relax, tries to settle back and get comfortable again with Liam on one side, aggravated, provoked and struggling to keep his mouth closed or else be called a hypocrite and suffer the wrath of Louis again, and Louis on his other side, now more intently focused on the film than Harry's ever seen him focus on anything in the near two months they've known each other.

Harry doesn't know how to break the tension. He doesn't understand why it has to feel like tension to begin with. _He_ sure as hell can't focus on the movie now.

He's two seconds away from getting up and just sitting on the floor to avoid making things even more awkward, when Louis lets out a short huff, gives his sleeve a small tug, and pulls him back to where he'd been positioned to begin with.

He doesn't say anything. The easiness that had been there before is all but lost, Harry now hyper-aware of all the points where their shoulders are touching, their arms, their thighs.

He exhales, shuts his eyes, grounds himself. It's fine.

Louis is right.

Liam's just being an arse.

"Popcorn?" Louis murmurs near his ear, keeping his voice as low as possible.

Harry blinks his eyes back open, looks down to find Louis holding his plate in front of him.

"Only if they're the pieces you pulled out from under my bum," he whispers back.

"Already ate those," Louis says.

Harry lets out sigh of mock disappointment, grabs a handful anyway.

It's not flirting. It's just banter.

\---

"Is it flirting?" he asks Niall when they get a moment alone the next day at the restaurant.

"Is what flirting?" Niall asks. "Us talking? No, I don't reckon it is."

"Not this," Harry shakes his head. "Louis and I. Do we sound like we're flirting?"

"Is this because of what Liam said last night?"

"Maybe," Harry shrugs. "Yeah."

"Well, Liam's a wanker," Niall tells him, rolling his sleeves up to just below his elbow. "I don't know why he thought that was a good thing to say to either of you."

Harry nods in agreement. "Yeah, it was... weird."

Weird because he hadn't thought he'd been flirting. Weird because Louis is Travis' best mate. Weird because Harry is in this odd sort of in-between place where he's not with Travis but he's not _not_ with Travis, and the thought of flirting with anyone, let alone Louis - _especially_ Louis - is so far from his head.

And it's weird because it had probably just been a throwaway comment on Liam's part, and yet Harry hasn't stopped thinking about it since.

"He should have known it would mess with your head," Niall says.

He still hasn't answered the question.

"Are we flirting?" Harry asks again.

Niall winces, leans back against the kitchen wall, takes an obvious moment to find the right words so he can tiptoe around Harry's feelings like everyone's been doing with him since the accident.

"You and Louis," he says slowly, eventually, "you're both kind of in the same boat."

"You mean we're both sad?" Harry rolls his eyes.

"Well, yeah," Niall nods. "You basically lost your boyfriend. He basically lost his best friend. And you've kind of adopted each other to fill those voids."

"That doesn't mean we're flirting," Harry argues.

"I'm not saying you are," Niall tells him. "I'm just saying you have a good thing going on with him. He makes you laugh. You make him laugh. Maybe it comes off as flirting to other people, and maybe you don't mean for it to. Maybe you're just good friends. Maybe you're just being nice. Or, maybe you are flirting. Who cares?"

"Liam apparently cares," Harry points out just as Abby comes into the kitchen, giving each of them a dirty look for standing around and chatting.

"He's going through a crisis," Niall tells her as she passes by on her way to the sink.

Abby raises an eyebrow. "Another one?"

"Hey," Harry frowns.

"Ignore her," Niall says to him. "And Ignore Liam. Don't let him ruin whatever it is you and Louis have. I can almost guarantee you he didn't mean it in any particular way when he said it."

"Yeah?" Harry checks. He's just never put too much thought into his and Louis' quick friendship before this. He's never consciously noted how easily they get on, how easy it is to be around him, how it's like pulling his head out of the water and getting a breath of fresh air whenever they're together. But that _is_ how he feels, and that _is_ what it's like to spend time with Louis, and now that Harry's been made aware of it, he can't become _unaware_.

He's not trying to flirt. He's not trying to do anything, really. He's just being himself.

"If it makes you feel any better," Niall says, "I'm glad you and Louis get along the way you do. He understands what you're going through better than I do. It's good you have him. And-" He pauses, takes a glance around the kitchen to make sure Abby is out of earshot. "-If you were to want to flirt with him, I wouldn't care. Go for it. He's a catch. Do what makes you happy."

That's not what Harry wants to hear.

He groans and gives Niall a small shove off the wall. _"Niall."_

"What?" Niall laughs. "He's a good looking lad. He's got those nice blue eyes, those cheekbones. He's funny. And don't count yourself out. You're a not so bad either."

Harry can't believe those words are all coming out of Niall's mouth.

"Christ," he mutters, shaking his head. "We are not doing this. We are not talking about this. Not when it comes to Louis."

"Are you saying I'm wrong?" Niall smirks.

"I'm saying I'm staying out of this," Harry says before he pushes himself off the wall and starts heading for the kitchen exit to go back to work.

He's not flirting with Louis. He's not flirting with anyone. And Louis sure as hell isn't flirting with him. He's Travis' best mate. Harry would be a fool to think otherwise.

\---

"What about this one?" Louis asks a few days later, striding over to a crooked little tree with crooked little branches, each of them bent in a way Harry's not so sure they're supposed to.

"It looks a bit fucked up if I'm behind honest," Harry says, eyeing the thing suspiciously with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat.

"That's... that's a terrible thing to say about a tree," Louis says. "I can't believe you just said that about my tree."

"And I can't believe you're actually growing attached to this one," Harry counters, shaking his head before tucking his face back into his scarf.

Louis glares at him, the kind of glare that would make anyone else wither away at the spot, but not Harry. Harry's not about to crumble.

"Come here," Louis says, beckoning him forward, voice stern even with his teeth chattering away.

"Why?"

"You're looking at it from the wrong angle."

"There's a right angle?" Harry has to laugh. "You mean up close where I can't get the full, horrific picture?"

"Yes, come here," Louis tries again, and as soon as Harry's within grabbing distance, Louis latches onto his arm, drags him forward, and makes him stand directly beside the tree, his leg nearly brushing the needles. "See?" he says. "Looks better, right?"

Harry barely even glances at it. "No."

"Harold."

"Louis."

"Just look at the fucking tree," Louis says before he lifts his glove-less hand to Harry's face, cold fingers mushing into his cheek and forcing him to look at the pitiful excuse for a Christmas tree. It's not flirting. Harry's face just heats up because they're in public and Louis is being a nuisance. They've done things like this before and it's never been considered flirting.

"It's... it's lovely," Harry lies, clearing his throat and pushing back against Louis' hands to face him again. "Best ugly Christmas tree ever."

Louis gives his cheek a gentle slap.

"Just for that, you're not allowed to help me decorate it."

"I wasn't aware that was part of the plan," Harry admits. It's late. He'd just assumed they'd be getting the tree on the way home from the hospital and then they'd go their separate ways. At least, that's the impression he'd gotten when Louis, on a spontaneous whim, had dragged him over to the lot with all of the Christmas trees for sale. Harry had figured it would just be a quick detour, that Louis would find a small one, they'd get on the tube with it, get off at their respective stops, and go back to their respective flats.

Thirty minutes and one sad looking tree later, apparently he's going back to Louis'.

"I'm not sure these branches can hold more than tinsel," Louis says, "so it's probably for the best that we don't decorate much anyway, but I like it. It has character."

"Are you putting up other decorations?" Harry asks as he follows Louis and the tree to the place where they're supposed to pay.

"Just a wreath on the door," Louis says. "And probably some lights inside. You can help with those. You're taller than me."

"I didn't sign up for this."

"Are you saying you don't want to help?" Louis asks, turning briefly to fix him another hard look. "Because you don't have to. You can always go back to your flat and be alone and be sad that you're not with me. Go ahead, see if I care."

"That's not what I'm saying," Harry sighs, even if it kind of is. "I just mean that it's late and I'm tired, and if it were any other time, I'd be happy to help you decorate your flat."

"It's the first of December," Louis says, as if that date hasn't been flashing like a neon sign in Harry's head all day, reminding him that it's been two full months without Travis. "If we don't get these things up tonight, Santa is going to write me off his list this year."

He puts the tree down at the foot of the table where two elderly ladies are collecting money, and Harry just wrinkles his nose at him.

"That's not how it works," he says. "There aren't any rules about decorating. Trav and I used to put our tree up the weekend before Christmas and Santa never wrote us off his list."

"Guess what?" Louis says, rifling through his wallet for cash. "Santa isn't real."

Harry rolls his eyes and reaches out to straighten Louis' beanie. "Fine," he says. "I'll help you with your lights."

"I'll pay you in hot chocolate and compliments," Louis says. He passes a handful of bills to the lady ringing them up and wishes her a quick Merry Christmas, before gathering his tree into his arms and ushering Harry towards the hot chocolate. "Two, please," he says.

"You don't have any free hands," Harry points out.

"And you have two of them," Louis reminds him.

"So, now I'm carrying your hot chocolate the entire way home, too?"

"Yes," Louis says, and then, "your legs look nice in those trousers."

Harry has to look down to see what trousers he's actually wearing. They're his tan corduroy pair. Slowly, he lifts his head and blinks back at Louis.

"My legs look nice in these trousers?" he repeats, bewildered.

"Yes," Louis says, as Harry goes to pick up their two steaming cups. "Like I said, hot chocolate-" He nods towards the cups. "-and compliments."

Harry can't help the way his mouth curves up at the corner. "How many compliments?"

Louis just shrugs. "It depends on how many decorations you help me with."

\---

Four.

He helps with four. Two strings of lights draped around the top border of two sides of Louis' living room, one sprig of mistletoe pinned above the entrance to Louis' kitchen that they each avoid like the plague, and a wreath hung on the outside of Louis' door.

He helps with four things, gets one compliment for each of them, two of which he's not even sure are compliments, and then he flops down on Louis' bed while Louis tries to find where he'd packed away the tinsel in his closet, and the next thing he knows, it's two o'clock in the morning and the room is dark, and someone is trying to nudge him awake.

For a disorienting moment, Harry forgets where he is. He forgets who he's with. He forgets that the person silhouetted against the dim light from outside the bedroom isn't his boyfriend, _can't_ be his boyfriend, forgets that he pretty much doesn't even have a boyfriend.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, frowns at the figure perched next to him, his heart aching for reasons he can't quite connect. This isn't right. Something isn't right. This isn't his bed, he isn't with who he thinks he is, he's not-

"Hey, sorry to have to wake you," Louis' voice murmurs in the dark, reaching out, twisting, tightening around him like a lasso and wrenching him back to reality.

Harry takes a quiet, shuddering breath as he props himself up on his elbows. It's Louis. He's at Louis' flat. This is Louis' bed. He's with Louis.

"It's late," Louis tells him softly. "You're welcome to stay here, but you're right in the middle of the bed, and I... Well, I can't get under the covers."

Exhaling, Harry hangs his head, face in his hands. He pushes his growing curls back, tries to get his heart to slow down.

"Sorry," he mumbles before moving off his stomach and onto his knees. He clambers off the edge of the bed as gracelessly as one can imagine, feeling Louis' eyes follow him through the dark, regarding him with mild curiosity as he stands there, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do.

"Are you staying?" Louis asks.

Harry doesn't know. He doesn't know what he's doing. The only thing he can think is that he doesn't have any other clothes.

"Harry?" Louis says, softer. He shuffles across the bed, gets to his feet on Harry's side. "Hey, what's up? Are you alright?"

Harry nods, tries to make out Louis' face, but there isn't enough light.

"Sorry," he says again, voice a little shaky. He lets out an anxious breath, tries to steady himself, focus on the present, on the room, on Louis coming up in front of him, reaching out for his hands. "Sorry, I just... I thought, for a moment... I thought-"

"You thought I was Trav?" Louis guesses, giving his fingers a sad, little squeeze.

Harry squeezes back.

"Yeah," he exhales, feeling silly for it, for letting it affect him like this.

"First time?" Louis asks.

"First time what?"

"Was that the first time you've woken up and thought he was still here?" Louis says. He lets go of Harry's hands and takes a seat back down on the edge of the bed. "The first time you thought maybe it was only a nightmare?"

Harry nods again, thinks it might just be. He's had moments before, mostly in those first few weeks, where he'd roll over in bed in the morning or the middle of the night and expect to see Travis beside him, moments where he'd almost forgotten, almost called Travis' phone, almost poured two cups of coffee. But this is different.

This is waking up and having someone actually be there. It's waking up and having it feel like before, feel like he's still with Travis, his body reacting to another presence, a prod on the shoulder, an actual voice. Instinct wants to kick in. Reality wants to disconnect. He's not alone in his bed wishing Travis were there with him. There's actually someone there who's trying to pull him back.

It's disorienting.

"It happened to me when I went back to Chicago," Louis tells him, pulling his bare feet onto the bed. "I woke up in my own bed in the place I'd been living for four years, and it felt like the accident had never happened."

"It's... it's really fucked up," Harry says quietly. He feels a bit ill if he's being honest. Like someone's told him Travis is in a coma all over again.

"You don't realize just how much you miss him," Louis says, "until you have that little moment where you think you have him back."

Harry tucks his hands in the sleeves of his jumper, folds his arms. Yeah, that's how it feels. It feels like a fresh wave of emptiness, of that cold, numbing dread, feels like plucking the stitches in his heart from the places it hasn't even begun to heal. Despite the lies, the stories kept to himself, despite Travis constantly holding him at arm's length - he misses Travis, _his_ Travis, more than he's let himself miss him in a while.

"I miss the Travis I knew," Harry says, chest heavy as he settles onto the bed beside Louis, still hugging his arms around himself. "I miss not knowing the things I know about him now. I miss the person I'd fallen in love with."

"You miss the idea of him," Louis says, and however awful it might sound, it's true. Harry misses the idea of Travis.

"I never had the real Travis to begin with," he says with a small shrug. "All I ever had was the idea of him."

"Well, in case you were wondering," Louis says, "the real Travis is pretty missable too."

"Yeah?"

Louis just makes a small noise of acknowledgement, the two of them sitting together in the dark bedroom.

It's been two months now. Travis has been gone for almost nine weeks. He'll be missing Christmas at this rate, the New Year, leaving everyone behind to wonder just how long his absence is going to last. Harry can't help thinking lately, that if anything were to change, if Travis were ever going to get better, he would have done it by now. It's just science. It's statistics. It's how these things go.

He reckons Louis might be thinking it tonight, too.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"We're going to be alright without him, aren't we?"

It's the first time Louis has asked it. It's the first time he hasn't just said it as a fact, as if they _are_ going to be alright, as if he knows for sure that they will be. It's been two months. Maybe it's because the holidays are coming up, maybe it's because it's late, because it's cold, because it's dark in Louis' bedroom and there's only Harry to hear the honest worry in his words, but he's asking, and Harry doesn't have an exact answer.

"I don't know," he says quietly, unfolding his arms and setting his hand on the bed next to Louis' so just their smallest fingers brush. "I don't know, Lou."

\---

The next time he wakes, there's an arm touching his arm, the back of a hand just grazing the back of his hand, a shin against his knee. There's no moment of confusion this time, no second where he forgets whose bed he's in. He cracks an eye open, expecting to find Louis, and Louis is who he finds, fluttering his own eyes open, frowning through the morning light before retracting his limbs.

"Harry," he says, and Harry barely gets his mouth open to ask what's wrong, because something apparently is, when he hears the faint sound of a phone vibrating out in the living room. "Harry, your phone."

Harry's heart drops into his stomach. His phone.

There are only a handful of calls that he'd get at this time of the morning, even less that could possibly be any sort of good.

He's out of bed before the next vibration can ring out. He's snatching the phone off the coffee table and reading the name off the screen with a breath of relief just as the call ends.

"Louis?" he calls, voice like gravel. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis appear in the doorway of his bedroom, duvet wrapped around his shoulders. "Lou, it was your phone. It was Evie."

"From work?" Louis asks, crossing the room and taking the phone from Harry's outstretched fingers. He takes a seat on the edge of the couch and holds the duvet open at his side for Harry to join him beneath it.

"What's she calling this early for?"

"I don't know," Louis murmurs, already unlocking his phone to try to call her back. Before he can get there, though, a text from her comes through. He opens it, reads it, doesn't say anything as he angles the screen for Harry to take a look.

_Tommo- call me back when you can. Found your friend with a wicked fever this morning. Heard he's having trouble breathing. Might be pneumonia. I'm sorry. x_

_\---_

It is pneumonia.

Harry calls his boss, tells her there's something going on with Travis, that he won't be able to make it in, and he follows Louis to the hospital with stomach in knots to find out that it is indeed pneumonia. They've done the x-rays and checked his lungs. It's pneumonia.

And, just like that, it feels like he's back at square one. It feels like no matter how much time passes, no matter how normalized all of this starts to become, how many days he manages to go without breaking down, without crying, without thinking the worst is going to happen, and no matter how many times he thinks maybe he can make it through this in one piece, something goes wrong all over again.

Only now, it seems to be taking its toll on Louis. Now, Harry can see his resolve wearing thin, the careful composure he'd maintained during those first few weeks slipping away.

Harry doesn't know what to do.

"I don't get it," Louis says, pacing Travis' room as soon as his shift ends. "How can he have pneumonia? He was fucking fine when we saw him yesterday."

"Someone mentioned his breathing being a little off," Harry remembers, pulling his coat tighter across the back of his shoulders. "One of the doctors that came in while you were working. They said they'd keep an eye on it."

"Did they?" Louis asks, stopping at the foot of Travis' bed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it didn't seem like something I needed to worry about," Harry says truthfully. "The doctor didn't sound concerned. I don't know, maybe he just didn't want to scare me if it turned out to be nothing."

"Pneumonia isn't nothing," Louis says. "Aspiration pneumonia isn't nothing. People die from this."

"And people die from car accidents," Harry says, keeping his voice low, as steady as he can manage when his stomach has been turning over all day. "They die from traumatic brain injuries. They die from comas. I've been sitting here all day thinking about what people die from, Louis. Trust me. I know they die from pneumonia."

That's just how it is. And once again, there isn't a fucking thing either of them can do about it. Harry doesn't need to be reminded. He doesn't need Louis pacing the room and second-guessing the doctor's care. He's spent the entire day on edge, watching Travis' chest rise and fall with the help of his new breathing machine, watching more doctors and nurses than he's seen in a while come to check on him. He doesn't need any of this.

Louis must realize. He sets his work rucksack in the corner of the room, still holding onto his coat and a thermos of coffee, and quietly drops into the empty seat next to Harry.

"Sorry," he murmurs, frustration brimming on the edge of his voice. "I'm just so _tired."_

"I know," Harry manages.

"I just thought..." He shakes his head, scrubs his free hand over his face as he sits up straighter in the chair. He lets out a quiet sigh. "I don't know."

"Don't know what?" Harry tries.

Louis sets his hand back down on the armrest, his fingers falling mere inches from Harry's. Harry stares at them, his chest heavy after spending the past ten hours alone in a too-small room with the boy he's supposed to love, watching Travis' face flush as his fever grows, his forehead shining with sweat. He doesn't know if it's the isolation, if it's the helplessness, if it's because he just feels like he's teetering close to the edge again, but there's an ache in his lungs, and there's a part of him that looks at Louis' hand and sees something steady, something that could bring him back to this earth.

He bridges the space between them, sets his hand over the back of Louis', and hooks their fingers together. The weight in his lungs lifts slightly.

Louis doesn't even flinch.

"I just thought he'd be awake by now," he finishes. He gives Harry's fingers a little squeeze and, without turning to look at him, shifts to the side of his chair so he can lean his head on Harry's shoulder.

Maybe he needs this as much as Harry does.

"Thank you," he says, "for staying here all day."

"Where else would I be?" Harry murmurs.

"Not here?" Louis shrugs. "You're not really his boyfriend anymore. You don't have to be here all day."

"I don't have to be here at all," Harry says, tracing a circle over the back of Louis' hand with his thumb. "But I still care about him. Probably more than I want to. Definitely more than I should."

"I know," Louis says as he flips his hand over so he can thread their fingers together properly."What I meant, though, was thanks for staying and waiting for me."

And Harry wants to tell him that he wasn't waiting, that he wouldn't have waited, that he's still here because visiting hours go to ten o'clock and it's only nine fifteen, but he doesn't. He holds Louis' hand and rests his cheek against the top of Louis' head, and when visiting hours end and they have to go home, he follows Louis back to his flat again, not because it's late and he doesn't want to be all alone in his own flat, but because he wants to, because Louis lets him.

\---

When he gets up the next morning, the heat is on. That's the one thing he notices.

The heat is on and it's a lot warmer here than in his own flat.

He's able to sit out in the living room first thing in the morning without his teeth clattering, without his skin prickling, without needing to bundle up and grab a second or third blanket just to function.

He does pull his feet up off the floor, though, his toes bare, curling around the edge of the couch. There's a bit of fuzz caught between his big toe and the next. He picks it out, flicks it absently onto the floor, and adjusts the phone against his ear.

"Yeah, Niall," he mumbles, exhausted from a night spent lying awake in Louis' bed, his mind unable to shut down. "They've got him on a breathing machine and everything now. It's... I don't know. At least before, we were just waiting for him to wake up on his own time. Now it's like they've set a countdown for him."

"He's a tough guy," Niall tries to reassure him. "He's a fighter, Harry. He's been a fighter his whole life and you just didn't know it."

"Oh, I knew he was a fighter," Harry huffs. "He fought with me all the time. Fought with me about football, about job applications, about using too much hot water, buying him gifts, his parents, his-"

"Don't be an arse," Niall sighs, cutting him off. "I'm just saying, he's been through shit. He got through that infection in the first few weeks. He can get through this."

"But this is pneumonia," Harry argues as he watches a tiny spider make its way up the wall behind the television. "Even Louis' upset about it and he never worries about anything."

He gets up from his perch on the edge of the couch to open the nearest window just a crack.

"I'm pretty sure he worries,'" Niall replies as Harry grabs a magazine off the table. "He's probably always worrying, Harry. He just doesn't want you to see it."

"Maybe," Harry says, only half listening. He switches the phone to his other ear. "Sorry, there's a spider on the wall. I'm just trying to push it outside."

"Don't let it bite you."

"Why not? I always wanted to be Spiderman."

"You don't want to be Spiderman."

"You're right," Harry concedes as he flings the spider out into the open air. "I want to be Batman."

He goes to shut the window and sit back down in his corner of the couch, but he freezes, hands pressed to the top of the glass, leaving round, little fingerprint smudges once he pulls them away. There are people passing by on the street below. Louis could be one of those people on his way back from his trip to Starbucks. Harry could have just flung the spider onto Louis' head. Or into his drink.

He shuts the window anyway and tucks himself back into the couch.

"So, yeah," he says, pulling his feet up again. "It just seems different this time. Like, things could get really bad really quickly. And I think we're both kind of tired of having bad news thrown our way."

"Just keep your heads up," is Niall's quiet advice. "I know you're having me cover your shift for you today, but try not to spend the next ten hours in the hospital. You need to take care of yourself too, buddy."

"I know," Harry sighs.

"Make sure you're eating enough."

"I know."

"Drink plenty of water."

"Yes, Niall."

"I know you're worried," Niall says, "but I don't want to have to worry about you as well."

Harry grabs the single throw pillow he'd forced Louis to get and hugs it to his chest. That's not what he wants. He doesn't need anyone worrying about him. He's not the one frozen in a coma, fluid in his lungs, a fever burning through him, struggling to breathe. He's fine. He's just tired, just sad, but he's healthy. He'll be fine.

"I don't need you to worry about me," he says, voice low.

But Niall insists. "I'm your friend," he says. "That's what I'm here for."

"You mean you're not here just to cover my shifts when I can't make it to work?"

"No, that's what Abby's for," Niall jokes just as the door clicks open and Louis makes his way inside.

Harry turns to give him a small wave, sees he's holding two cups from Starbucks, feels his stomach give a weird lurch.

"I know you said you didn't want anything," Louis calls as he shuts the door, "but I got you a vanilla latte. If you try to pay me back, I'm just going to hide the money in your wallet or buy you a Christmas present with it, so don't even fucking- Oh."

He must finally notice the phone pressed to the side of Harry's head as he makes his way around the front of the couch to hand him his latte.

Harry shoots him a disapproving look. "You really didn't have to do this."

He'd specifically said not to buy him a drink. Firstly, because that's three pounds he doesn't have to spare on expensive coffee, and secondly, because he'd already had a cup from Louis' coffee maker at half six, when he'd finally given up on trying to sleep.

"Don't make a big deal out of it," Louis says, forcing him to take the cup anyway. "I bought it and now it's yours. Just drink it. Who's on the phone?"

"Niall," Harry tells him.

"Say 'hi' for me," is all Louis says before Harry shoos him away and slouches further down the couch with another great sigh.

"Louis says 'hi.'"

"It's nine o'clock in the morning," Niall's voice comes back to his ear. "What's Louis doing at your flat so early?"

Harry hugs the pillow tighter to his chest. "Well, it's his flat," he says quietly, "and I slept over."

"Had a late night last night?" Niall asks, curious. "You two hit up all the pubs after the hospital?"

"No," Harry mutters. "I just didn't want to go back to my own place."

"And he bought you a coffee just now?"

"A latte."

"He bought you a fancy coffee?" Niall corrects himself. "And you didn't even want one?"

Harry lets his head fall back against the cushions. He stares at the ceiling. "What is your point, Niall?"

"Nothing," Niall claims. "I have no points."

"That's what I thought."

"I just think it's interesting, is all."

"It's not interesting." Harry picks his head up and twists around to see Louis now puttering about his bedroom, either paying no attention or pretending to pay no attention. Harry lowers his voice anyway. "I know what you're implying and you're not funny."

"I'm not trying to be," Niall counters. "I am simply _observing."_

"Well, I wish you wouldn't," is all Harry can come up with. "Observe someone else."

"Like you?" Niall laughs. "Fine, I'm observing that you slept over at his flat for no reason. I'm observing that this is getting you all flustered. I'm observing that you're-"

"Alright," Harry cuts him off. "Thanks for covering my shift for me."

He hangs up before Niall can get another word in.

For fuck's sake.

He buries his face in the pillow and tries to collect himself. This is not a thing that is happening. He doesn't even want to think about it because there's nothing there worth thinking about. His friends are just arses.

And Louis' an arse, too, for wasting money on him when he said he didn't want any coffee.

With a frustrated grumble, Harry picks his head up, grabs his cup off the table, and takes a sip.

It's tastes really good.

He hates that it tastes really good.

Careful not to burn his tongue, he takes another small sip before he gets up from the couch to go give Louis an earful about it. And maybe thank him.

"Louis," he calls, bare feet almost silent on the wood floor. "Please stop pity-buying me things. I appreciate it, but I really don't need-"

He stops in the doorway to find Louis standing shirtless in front of his open closet. Fuck.

"Don't need what?" Louis asks. He turns around.

Harry's eyes immediately go from the curve of his spine to the cut of his hips. He's seen Louis without a shirt before, seen him in nothing but his briefs, but now, with Niall's words fresh in his head, he feels like he's come straight from Victorian England. It's like he's never seen so much as an exposed ankle before.

He drops his gaze to the floor, his stomach doing that odd little swooping thing again.

"I- nothing," he says, unable to look directly at Louis' face. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were getting changed."

"Just putting on a jumper," Louis shrugs, reaching into his closet for a navy blue one as if this is normal. It is normal. There is nothing out of the ordinary here. "I didn't know it was going to be so cold today."

"Right," Harry nods, daring to glance up. "Winter and all that."

Louis throws him a funny look before he throws the jumper over his head. "Are you okay?"

No, he's not okay.

"I think I'm just... really tired," Harry says because it's the best excuse he can come up with. Because it's probably true.

"Maybe you should stay here today and try to sleep," Louis suggests. He crosses the few feet of space between them to press the back of his hand to Harry's forehead. "You're a little warm. Do you feel ill?"

Harry shakes his head, reaches out to straighten the hem of Louis' jumper.

"I don't have a fever," he says before he realizes what he's doing and tucks his hands firmly in his pockets. "I just slept like shit last night. I'll have a kip by Travis."

"Promise?" Louis checks.

"Yes, I promise."

"How's the latte?"

"I wish it were worse," Harry tells him.

"Makes it hard to stay annoyed at me, doesn't it?" Louis smirks.

He's an arse. Niall's an arse.

Everyone Harry knows is an arse.

\---

Another phone call comes in while he's outside the hospital, taking a break from the monotony of Travis' room, trying to remind himself that the helplessness he feels, the uselessness - it's all just because he's frustrated and tired, because Travis is still running a fever, because there's nothing he can do but wait for the antibiotics to start working.

The phone call comes in, and Harry isn't expecting it. He doesn't recognize the number, knows it's not the hospital, not either of Travis' parents because they've already texted Louis to say they're coming down the following morning.

The call comes in, and Harry picks up, and it's a woman from a photo agency, telling him they're interested in his work, that they would like to put him up for consideration for an upcoming photoshoot, that it's for a magazine, that he'll hear back from them within the next few weeks, and that the proposed budget for the shoot would be enough to cover Harry's entire rent for the next few months.

It's the first paying offer he's received in over a year. It's the first _substantial_ paying offer he's received ever.

He tries to remember that it's not his yet, that he hasn't actually gotten the job, that he shouldn't get his hopes up, but it does feel a bit like validation. It feels like someone's trying to remind him that there's more to life than hospitals and restaurants.

There's more than this.

He's more than this.

He just needs to remember that, take a deep breath, try to keep going.

It's hard, though. It's really fucking hard, when every time he comes close to catching a break, something else falls apart.

"Harry?"

Harry picks his head up from his phone, his thumb hovering over his mother's name, still undecided about whether or not he should call her and tell her the news. It's Louis, jogging over to him from the hospital entrance, dressed in his scrubs, coatless, a little winded.

Harry's heart drops.

He takes that deep breath, braces himself for the next blow. That's just how this works, isn't it? Why else would Louis be out here?

"What's happened?" he asks, voice somehow steadier than he'd thought it might be. Maybe he's just getting used to this. Maybe he doesn't have the energy to unravel anymore.

"He stopped breathing," Louis says, crossing his bare arms over his chest to keep warm. He doesn't try to sugarcoat it. He doesn't tiptoe around it. He just gives it to Harry as it is. "They were able to get him back, but he's intubated."

"He's not breathing on his own?" Harry asks.

Louis nods, his eyes a sad sort of grey-blue, reflecting the thick clouds above them. "For now," he says. "His lungs are shot from the pneumonia, Harry. He could be alright once he fights off the infection, but it's not guaranteed."

"Okay," Harry says quietly. He doesn't know what else to say.

He doesn't tell Louis about the phone call or the job opportunity. He doesn't let himself get upset or focus on the way his stomach twists with worry, the way his own lungs start to feel short of breath, his head going a little fuzzy. He just gives a resigned, little sigh, and when he sees his own pain reflected in Louis' face, he wordlessly takes Louis' fingers, unwraps his arms from across his chest, and walks with him back inside.

\---

Three days pass and Travis doesn't improve. He doesn't get any worse, but he doesn't get any better either.

Three days pass before Harry gets word that Travis is being scheduled for a surgery. The doctor explains that they're going to implement a feeding tube directly into his stomach in a few days, a more permanent feeding solution than the tube that's been going down his nose.

It means they're finally settling in for the long term. It means, whether he makes it through his bout of pneumonia or not, Travis probably won't be waking up any time soon.

Harry should have expected it. He should have realized something like this was coming, and yet, it still hits him like a heavy kick to the chest when Travis' doctor slips into the room to let him know, their words crippling him, knocking him down, stealing the wind out of him.

He leaves the hospital in a daze before he can give Louis the news. His restaurant shift starts in half an hour and he can't miss any additional work time, can't _afford_ to miss any additional work time. It's fine. Travis' parents will find out. The doctor will tell them and they'll both tell Louis. They'll figure it out.

\---

"It's a very routine procedure," Louis promises him that night, after he shows up at Harry's door with two containers of chicken noodle soup and a separate bag holding all of the ingredients necessary for cheese toasties. Comfort food, Louis had claimed, because apparently that's what he needs and that's what Harry needs.

Harry still isn't sure why Louis is there. They hadn't made plans to see each other. It's not like they'd left the hospital together and just decided not to part ways as they usually do. He'd only texted Louis in the middle of his restaurant shift to say yes, he'd be working late, nothing about seeing him after his hours end. But Louis is in his flat, standing in front of his stove with a spatula in his hand, still wearing his coat because Harry's had the heat off while he's been out all day, telling him the surgery will be alright.

"But aren't the risks greater because of the pneumonia?" Harry asks. It's all he's been thinking about since he'd been given the news. "He can't even breathe on his own right now. What if his lungs can't handle it? What if he gets another infection?"

"Then we'll deal with it like everything else," Louis tells him.

"With cheese toasties and soup?"

"Are you mocking me?"

Harry shakes his head as he bites at his thumb nail. He leans back against his refrigerator. "I would never."

"That's what I thought," Louis nods and goes to flip over the sandwich in the pan. "This is a treat you're getting from me tonight. My mum always said it was the best meal for when you're feeling down."

"I've been feeling down for two months," Harry says, "and this is the first time you're cooking for me?"

"Desperate measures," Louis tells him. "It's been a shitty few days and we could both use a good, hot meal. Considering how fucking cold your flat is right now, I think you'll appreciate it."

Harry doesn't say anything as Louis gives the soup a stir in its pot. If he's being honest, he really hadn't been planning on eating much at all tonight. He'd picked at some of the extra food in the restaurant and had sipped at the glass of water Niall had forced into his hands, but other than that, his stomach really hasn't been handling the news of Travis' impending surgery very well.

"Is that why you're here?" he asks, watching Louis peek under the sandwiches to see if they're brown enough. "To feed me and make sure I don't freeze to death?"

"No," Louis shakes his head. He throws Harry a sideways glance before turning his attention resolutely back to the stove. "I'm here," he says, "because Travis' mum told me about the surgery, and you weren't anywhere to be found. I'm here because I haven't stopped worrying about you all day and I needed to know that you were alright."

"Oh," Harry says. The unexpected honesty catches him off guard. He stops biting at his nail and folds his arms across his middle. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to worry you. I had to leave for work."

He'd needed to get out of there.

"It's fine," Louis sighs. "You're fine. Travis will be fine. It's all going to be fine."

"Yeah?" Harry asks, blinking up at him. Because it definitely doesn't feel that way.

Louis turns the stove off and reaches for their plates. "I'm not about to tell you otherwise, am I?"

"No," Harry shakes his head, "I guess you wouldn't."

"Just, next time you need to make a run from the hospital," Louis says, "try to let me know, okay?"

"Okay," Harry says quietly as Louis sets their sandwiches on their plates and grabs a knife to cut them into triangles. He can do that. He can let Louis know the next time it all gets to be too much. It's a lot, having to spend so much of his time in the hospital lately. It's a lot, and it feels like there's this pressure for him to be there, to be by Travis' side, because he's the boyfriend, break or no break, and he's the person who'd been closest to Travis before all of this started.

He's just afraid he's going to suffocate soon, boxed into that tiny room, crowded into what little space there is along with everything that's broken apart between them.

He's not trying to fix their relationship. He's not trying to think about those things, about what Travis is to him, about what he is to Travis, that's not the point of their break. But the thoughts are still there, ghosting around in the shadows, even haunting him from the photos on the wall that he can't quite bring himself to look at but can't bring himself to take down either. And it's a lot.

Most days, he can handle it. Most days, he can swallow whatever feelings start to creep up from bellow and he can sit there and be there for Travis simply because Travis needs someone to be there for him.

Most days, he doesn't run off without checking in with Louis. Most days, he doesn't leave the bad news in the hands of Travis' parents.

And most days, he doesn't need someone to make him cheese toasties and pour him a bowl of soup, but here he is, and here Louis is, and this isn't suffocating. This doesn't feel like he's buried under rubble, trying to dig his way out.

This feels easy, like he can breathe for a moment.

"I would tell you that you need to take a break," Louis says, handing him a bowl and plate to carry into the living room, "but you're already on a break, and it doesn't seem to be keeping you away from him."

"I know," Harry says tiredly, because he does know. He's having a hard time thinking about anything else.

"I know he hurt you," Louis says. "I don't think he meant to, and I don't think you believe he meant to, but he did, and it can't possibly feel good to be around him every day."

He gets it. He understands.

There's just nothing Harry can do about it. His heart's being split in every which direction, and he'll feel like shit about it whether he sticks around or not.

"It must be tough," Louis says, "when you're still in love with him."

He sets his dishes on the coffee table and takes up his usual spot on the couch, leaving Harry standing there, trying to figure out why his words don't hit him the way he knows they're supposed to.

"Yeah," he manages dully after a second passes. "I guess."

But when he sits next to Louis and glances over at him, he knows that the way he'd felt months ago, a year ago, when he'd turn his head and see Travis on that side of the couch instead, is a feeling far removed from the way his heart sinks when he visits the hospital these days.

Maybe it's not tough because he's still in love. Maybe this is just what it feels like when he's starting to fall out of it.

\---

The surgery takes place late on a Tuesday afternoon.

Harry can't be there. He can't be there because he has to work, and he can't skip work because he's already called out too many days over the past week, and if he takes off any more without getting paid for it, he's not going to have enough money to settle his next month's rent.

He can't be there for Travis' surgery, a surgery that could have any number of complications thanks to Travis' persisting pneumonia, and he hates it. He hates that he can't be there and he hates that he still feels like he _needs_ to be there.

"I'll be there," Louis tells him the night before as they're leaving the hospital together. "Trav's parents will be there. I can text you updates as soon as we hear from his doctors, and I won't even be working so if you need to call me, I'll have my phone with me. It's going to be fine, Harry."

Harry wants to believe him. He's not sure he can handle any more bad news.

They go back to Louis' flat that night and they don't talk about the surgery. They don't talk about anything, really. They stay up late with the television on, both of them exhausted but neither ready to sleep. Harry knows he wouldn't even be able to, not when he hasn't had a proper sleep in days, not even with Louis there in the bed beside him.

But he does try. When Louis finally puts his head down and turns out the lights, he tries, and he just ends up laying there in the dark, the sound of Louis' hushed and steady breath the only company he has as his mind races over all of the possible outcomes of Travis' surgery.

He doesn't want this to happen. He doesn't want Travis to need this. He doesn't want him going through this when he's already so sick, when he can't even breathe on his own, when his lungs are so fucked up and his body is so weak.

Surgery means they don't expect him to wake up soon. Surgery means this coma is a more permanent thing than anyone has been willing to admit.

_Indefinite,_ the doctors had told him. Lasting anywhere from a few days to a few weeks, from several months to several years, or from now until forever.

It's starting to feel like it might be forever.

\---

His eight-hour shift at the restaurant stretches on like the longest day of his work-life.

Three hours into it, he starts getting texts from Louis. They haven't even wheeled Travis out of his room yet. The surgery is being delayed an hour or two. He's getting prepped. No one has come out to tell them anything. He's in surgery. They're all in the waiting room together.

And then silence.

For two hours, it's just silence.

No calls, no more texts, no updates from anyone, and all Harry can do is go back and forth between the kitchen and the restaurant floor and try to serve his guests as if he hasn't thrown up twice since noon, as if his - _god_ - his probably-ex-boyfriend isn't getting a fucking feeding tube installed directly into his digestive tract because he's in a coma and needs to get proper nutrition while the rest of his body withers away.

"They do these surgeries all the time," Niall reminds him when he finds him clutching his phone outside behind the restaurant and biting an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He'd stolen it from Louis that morning. He'd forgotten to steal the lighter as well.

Removing it from his mouth, he checks his phone for the hundredth time.

"It's been two hours," he says. "It's only supposed to take an hour at most. Why hasn't Louis said anything?"

"Maybe the doctors are still waiting for Travis to stabilize before they give an update," Niall guesses. "He has pneumonia. Maybe they're just being extra careful."

Harry shakes his head, can't help feeling like something's gone wrong, like he should have heard from someone by now. "I can't be here like this," he says. "I should be with them. I should be in that hospital. Even Trav's parents are there and they're never around for anything."

"So he'll be fine," Niall insists. "He has Louis. He has everyone he needs. You're basically broken up with him anyway, so what does it matter that you're not there?"

Harry blinks at him, feels like he's just been punched in the gut. "Niall."

"I'm serious," Niall says.

"So am I," Harry frowns at him, hurt little crease forming between his eyebrows. "Why would you say something like that?"

"Because it's true?" Niall tries unhelpfully. "You've been on your break with him for over a month now. You can't possibly tell me you're anywhere nearer to forgiving him and taking him back, can you?"

"That's not the point." Harry glares at him, straightening up off the wall he's been leaning against and tucking the cigarette back in his pocket. "I'm still his friend. I still care about him. I should be there."

He aims a frustrated kick at a pile of broken-down cardboard boxes, gets zero satisfaction out of the way they scatter about the back alley.

"Call Louis," Niall sighs, making no move to help clean his new mess.

"I already tried." He's tried twice and no one's answered.

"Try again," Niall says. "I'm sure Travis is fine. Maybe Louis just got held up somewhere."

Harry opens his mouth, ready to argue again that Louis has no where else to go today and he'd promised he'd be available for updates, but Niall just shakes his head at him.

"Call him," he says again, stern and calm, with the level head Harry wishes he could have. "If he doesn't answer, leave a message, text him, and then come inside and get back to work. You aren't helping yourself by worrying and you're only going to worry more if you stay out here alone, staring at your phone."

He doesn't wait for Harry to decide whether he's going to follow through or just ignore the advice. He goes inside and leaves Harry in the state that he's in, staring down at his blank phone, trying desperately to reassure himself that nothing is wrong. Niall is right. He has to be right. Louis would have called if something had happened.

Still, he dials Louis' number one last time, lets it ring and ring, the vice around his chest tightening with each second that passes until Louis' voicemail picks up and Harry has to find his voice again.

"Lou, it's me," he says, hand trembling where he's trying to hold the phone to his ear. "It's Harry. I don't know where you are, but if you could call me back, that'd be great. Trav's been in surgery for over two hours now and I'm kind of- kind of struggling not to freak out, actually. Please call me when you can. Thanks."

He hangs up and checks the time again as if he hasn't checked every two minutes for the past hour, as if it might say something unexpected now that he's given Louis another call.

It doesn't. It still reads ten past eight.

He pockets his phone, shuts his eyes, digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and takes a huge breath as he tries not to scream.

Louis will call him. Travis will be fine. Everything will be alright.

\---

He finally gets a text twenty minutes later while he's in the middle of taking orders for his last table of the night. It takes everything he has not to tell the four people he's supposed to be serving to hurry the fuck up so he can get back in the kitchen and read it, but as soon as they're finished, he bolts to the back of the restaurant and whips out his phone.

_Sorry, was running around trying to find someone to check on Travis. Didn't realize my phone was still on silent. He's out and stable again. Doctors have him under close watch. I'll text you if anything changes. x_

It's not the phone call Harry had been hoping for, but it's enough.

He waits until his heart rate slows again, until the rushing in his ears stops and his chest unclenches, and then he goes back out to the floor to finish his shift.

\---

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," he mutters into his phone as soon as he clocks out of work, Niall behind him, watching him wearily as he slips through the kitchen doors.

"Do you really need to call him?" Niall asks, buttoning his coat closed and following him though the empty tables. "He told you everything was fine. I'm sure it still is."

Harry frowns, listening to the call ring out. No, he doesn't need to call Louis again. He'd just figured it might make him feel less fucking dreadful if he could hear straight from Louis' mouth that he has nothing to worry about anymore.

"I just..." He sighs, changes his mind, realizes he doesn't have to explain himself. "He's not answering so it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"You just want to talk to him," Niall says anyway, his eyes going softer around the edges when Harry turns and manages to meet his.

They stand there at the front of the restaurant, all the lights turned off except for the one above their heads, everything quiet, even their boss as she does her final sweep of the floor, dutifully ignoring them. Harry swallows the lump in his throat, his heart tired, exhausted, clenching in his chest because he knows Niall is right.

"I just want to talk to him," he says, and it shouldn't feel weird admitting it, but it does. It feels like something he's not supposed to say.

"Maybe he fell asleep in Travis' room," Niall offers.

But that's not it. "Visiting hours are over."

"Then maybe he fell asleep at home," Niall tries again. "He's been cooped up in the hospital all day. I'm sure he could use some rest."

He pushes the door open, a rush of cold air hitting them. Harry ducks his head against it, his fingers fumbling to quickly close the top button of his coat and wrap his scarf tighter. When he picks his head up, he's met with a sight that makes him slow to a stop.

"Louis?" he exhales, relief and disbelief washing over him all at once. "What are you doing here?"

Niall elbows him in the ribs.

"You were literally just calling him," he sighs. "Why are you questioning this?"

"Shut up," Harry hisses. He meets Louis' gaze, his eyes a little glassy, the circles beneath them noticeably darker than usual.

"Just needed to see you," Louis says with a small shrug, his voice thick with emotion. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah," Harry agrees quietly. He glances over at Niall for some help, not sure what he's supposed to do when he's rooted at the spot but every nerve in his body feels like it's gravitating towards Louis.

Niall just clears his throat. "I, um. I'll leave you to it," he says, fishing his phone from his pocket. "I wanted to watch a program on the telly tonight anyway. Starts it half an hour." He turns to Louis. "Travis is okay?"

Louis nods. "He's okay, yeah."

"I'm glad," Niall says. "Get home safe, lads."

And then he's taking off down the street and it's just Harry and Louis in front of the restaurant, and it _has_ been a long day.

"Lou-" Harry starts again, but before he can finish, Louis is closing the space between them and hooking his arms around Harry's neck, burying his face in his shoulder, fingers closing around the material of Harry's coat.

And all at once, it's like the dread and despair that's been bleeding from Harry's heart all day finally leaks out of him.

He holds Louis back, one arm snagged around his middle, a hand finding its way up to the back of his neck. He shuts his eyes.

"Sorry," Louis murmurs into his coat. He lets out a watery laugh that's anything but funny. "Today just really sucked."

Harry rubs his thumb through the short bristles of hair at the bottom of Louis' neck. "I'm pretty sure I need this just as much as you."

He's felt like he's been falling to pieces since the moment he'd left Louis' flat that morning, a ball of anxiety, unable to think straight, think rationally. Now, with Louis holding onto him, his body warm and solid where they're pressed together, he feels like he can make it to the end of the night without splintering apart.

"I passed a coffee shop down the road that's still open," Louis mumbles. "Wanna grab a drink and go for a walk?"

Harry squeezes him tighter as he inhales one last time, the collar of Louis' coat smelling of cigarette smoke and some sort of cologne. As he lets go, Louis' arms fall from around his neck, his fingers trailing down past his elbow until he links up with Harry's hand.

"Coffee sounds nice," Harry says and manages a weak, tired smile.

\---

They each get a small, steaming cup and Louis splurges for the last piece of chocolate cake after he catches Harry eyeing it through the glass. Harry doesn't argue with him over it like he might any other night. He's too tired to argue, and the cake had made his stomach grumble like nothing else.

With their paper cups keeping their hands warm, they make their way over to the local Christmas Market in the hopes that it might still be open, not that they're up for much Christmas shopping, but because it might give them something else to think about for half an hour or so. Even with the temperature dropping, the nights getting longer, the Christmas decorations thrown up all across London, it hasn't quite felt like the holidays just yet. They've both been so focused on Travis for the past week, it's like December hasn't even arrived.

"Trav's parents are staying a few more days," Louis tells him as they cross the street together, huddled close but not quite touching anymore. "At least until his fever breaks."

"Did the doctors say anything about his pneumonia today?" Harry asks. He knows there were some complications with Travis' breathing during the surgery. Louis had explained it to him over the walk to the coffee shop, had said that the pneumonia is partly why it had taken so long, but he hadn't gone into detail. Harry hadn't wanted him to. It's over and Travis is stable. That's all that matters.

"He's still pretty sick," Louis tells him, "and the surgery's going to take a few days to recover from, but he's fighting, Harry. He's hanging in there."

"I know," Harry says, because he does. If he's learned anything from this, it's that Travis is a fighter. He takes a small sip of his coffee, feels it burn the back of his throat on the way down. "I think we might be broken up for real now."

If Louis is surprised to hear it, he doesn't even flinch.

"Not just a break anymore?" he asks, keeping his voice careful, free of any judgement. "No more hiatus?"

Harry shakes his head. "The other day, you said something to me about still being in love with him. And like, I think as soon as you said it, I realized I might not be."

"But you still care about him," Louis says, gripping his cup with both hands, his fingers just peeking out past his sleeves. "You keep visiting him, you spend all your time worrying about him."

"I'm just not in love with him anymore," Harry admits, maybe for the first time. "Not in the way I'm supposed to be."

"And not when you don't know who it is you're in love with," Louis says as they come up to the next intersection and slow to a stop. "I get it," he says. "Sometimes things just don't work out."

He turns to Harry, his eyes sympathetic, reflecting all of the fairy lights strung throughout the trees around them, and Harry trusts him, trusts him not to twist this into something it isn't, trusts him not to assume he's just looking for an easy way out. Nothing about this is easy.

"It's not because of the coma," he makes sure to say anyway. "I mean, part of it is that I can't just talk to him, and _that's_ because of the coma. But I'm not... I'm not calling it off because I can't deal with that side of it. That's the part I _can_ deal with."

"I know," Louis says. "You've been to see him almost every day since the pneumonia started."

Harry nods, waits for Louis to turn back around before crossing the street at his side. "It's all the other stuff," he tells him. "It's the relationship stuff, the lying, the money thing, all of that, and I just don't think... I don't know. I don't think my heart is in it anymore."

He's glad they're walking again, glad that he doesn't have to see Louis' face now or feel his eyes on him.

"What are you going to do if he wakes up?" Louis asks. "Not, like, years from now, but if he wakes up next week or next month, what are you going to do?"

Harry wants to say it depends on how much brain function Travis has if he wakes up. He wants to say it probably won't be an issue because it's probably not going to happen anyway. He wants to come at this from a point of rationality.

"I'll be there for him," he says instead, because it's the truth. "In whatever capacity I can be there, I'll be there, and if we can talk about everything, we'll talk, and then we'll decide where to go from there."

"Okay," is all Louis says, and he doesn't sound disapproving or troubled by any of it. He just sounds resigned, much like Harry, to the fact that this is happening, that it's just life, that sometimes things just don't work out and it's okay to admit it.

"Okay," Harry agrees. He takes another sip of his coffee. "I think the market's just around the corner."

"I don't hear anyone," Louis notes. "Usually there's music, isn't there?"

"Yeah," Harry says, only a little disappointed.

"Should we keep walking?" Louis asks. "We could just head back to my place if you want."

Harry shakes his head. He's not ready to turn in just yet. "Let's keep going. There's usually a tree decorated. And the lights are always nice."

"If they're still on."

"If they're still on," Harry nods and leads them the rest of the way.

As predicted, the market is closed for the night, all the lights turned off around the booths, a metal barricade set up in front of the entrance to keep trespassers out. The fairy lights are still on, though. The huge tree in the center is still lit up, its colorful strings still shining amongst the sparkling glass ornaments.

Harry takes a seat on the path, right outside the barricade, Louis standing beside him.

"Sit with me," he says, giving the leg of Louis' jeans a tug.

"Isn't your arse cold?" Louis frowns.

"Yes," Harry says as he pats the spot on the hard cement next to him with his gloved hand. "But I'm tired and you're tired, and this is as close as we're getting to that Christmas tree, so just sit with me for a minute and help me eat the chocolate cake."

It's the least he deserves after the day he's had. It's just one moment, one small fraction of today, for him to pretend he's just a twenty-six year old boy soaking in the air of Christmas, doing something for himself instead of feeling awful about the end of a three year relationship or the fact that Travis had to go through a miserable surgery only a few hours ago.

Louis lowers himself to the path, crosses his legs and hands Harry the box with the chocolate cake in it, two plastic forks on top.

"Cheers," he says as they both dig in for their first bite.

It's so good, Harry thinks he could cry.

"Fuck," he groans, eyes fluttering shut. He tilts his head back, tastebuds melting with the rich, still-warm chocolate before he swallows and lets out a mighty sigh. "That's what I needed."

"You sound like you're in a porno," Louis snorts, but Harry can hear it in his voice too. This is a miracle cake.

"Don't pretend it isn't the best cake you've ever had," Harry tells him, licking his fork clean. "Wish I could bake like this."

"I'm glad you can't," Louis says. "I'd never eat anything but cake ever again."

Harry takes another bite, the cake box sitting on the ground between them. He doesn't even care that people have been treading this path all day. "I'm still planning on baking one for your birthday," he notes.

"Are you going to be around for it?" Louis asks. "Have you made plans for Christmas yet?"

"I was just going to go home," he admits quietly. "I haven't seen my mum since before the accident, so..."

So, he's probably just going to have a good, long cry about everything he hasn't told her yet, while she tries to make him eat more than he can stomach and drink more tea than he can handle. And then he's probably just going to sleep for thirty-something hours straight.

"Remind me again why you haven't let her come visit?" Louis asks. The tip of his nose has already turned pink.

"Because she's my mum," Harry says, "and if she visits, she'll just leave here even more worried than before, or she just won't leave at all."

"Your couch _is_ rather comfortable."

Harry shakes his head. "If you think I'd make my own mother sleep on the couch instead of giving her my bed..."

"Sorry," Louis nods solemnly. "You're right. You only make strangers sleep on the couch."

"You don't sleep on the couch anymore," Harry points out because the last several times Louis has stayed the night, he's slept on the other side of Harry's bed. "You've been upgraded."

"I would hope so," Louis says, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "I'm not a stranger anymore, am I?"

"No," Harry agrees.

"So when are you heading back to see her?" Louis asks.

He sets his fork down in the box and leans back on his hands for a break, his eyes alternating between the Christmas tree and Harry.

"I'm supposed to leave Christmas Eve morning," Harry says, placing his fork beside Louis'. "And I'm coming back the morning after Christmas."

Louis tilts his head slightly, some of the light having returned to his face since they've left the restaurant. "Not even sticking around for my birthday."

"I'll bake the cake the night before," Harry tells him as if that should be enough. "Why? Are _you_ sticking around for your own birthday?"

"No," Louis says with a quiet laugh. "I'm leaving the same time you are. I'll probably just have a small party at my place the night before."

"Define _small,"_ Harry says.

"Whatever friends are around," Louis shrugs. "Some people from work, all of their plus-ones. A few of my sister's friends."

Harry lets out a low whistle. "I didn't know you were so popular."

"I'm not," Louis says. "I just wanted to have a party."

"A _small_ party."

"Yeah," Louis laughs again before picking his fork back up from the box and taking another bite.

Harry knows he'll probably have to work the night before Christmas Eve, the late shift, the busiest shift, everyone trying to get a last-minute meal out with friends before going home for the holidays, but he'll make it to Louis' afterwards. It's not like the party's going to end before eleven o'clock anyway. He'll be there. He'll bring a cake. It'll be good.

With only a few errant drops of coffee left in his cup and just the chocolate crumbs left in the box, he uncrosses his legs and lays back against the concrete, stretching out until his feet nearly touch the barricade. The sky is empty above him, a charcoal black, too cloudy and too much light pollution for any stars. It's broken up by spindly tree branches, crooked and bare, some of them wrapped in white strings of lights. Harry blinks up into the abyss, eyes bleary and tired from a day spent close to tears, and feels Louis glance down at him, his expression turning soft.

"See anything up there?" Louis asks, lowering onto his elbows first, then his back as well.

"Not a thing," Harry says, keeping his voice low. Past the trees, there's nothing but the black void, all the billions of stars beyond the atmosphere hidden from view. He hasn't even seen an airplane fly by.

"It's quiet tonight," Louis comments beside him. "Kind of feels like it does when it's about to snow."

"The weather report said sunshine tomorrow," Harry notes, having checked earlier. "But yeah, it kind of does."

He tilts his head to the side, realizes Louis is a lot closer than he'd expected, the angles of his face split between the shadows and the glow from the fairy lights above. Tonight, under the Christmas decorations with the crisp chill settling in the air and an empty box of cake between them, it's like they've managed to pull away for a moment. Not from each other, but from hospital visits, from overworking, from sick best friends and sick boyfriends- ex-boyfriends- maybe even a little bit from time itself.

The lines in Louis' face have thinned out, not quite relaxed, but they're not as tight as they've been for the past week or so. There's a tender sense of calm over them, a weariness that comes after a day spent holding their breaths and waiting for the storm to pass, like they haven't exactly made it out unscathed, but they're still here, in the aftermath, waiting to see what happens next.

"Can I take your picture?" Harry asks, not yet moving to reach for his phone.

"What? Like this?" Louis' nose crinkles as he lets out a quiet chuckle. "Is there even enough light?"

"There's enough," Harry says. He's not interested in the light anyway. It's the shadows that he wants to capture.

"Go for it," Louis says.

He keeps his eyes focused on the darkness above them as Harry gets his phone ready.

This is the aftermath, he thinks, when he opens the camera and sees Louis reflected on the screen, silent and weary, his guard down, like he's gazing out onto the broken battlefield after the long fight. This is the Louis that Harry has come to know, the _only_ Louis he's ever really known. It's the Louis that had met him at the hospital the day of the accident, the day that everything had changed. It's the Louis _after Travis_.

"I used to be a lot more fun than this," Harry murmurs as he lines up his shot, adjusts the brightness, the photo preview already grainy and discolored from the poor lighting. He doesn't care.

Louis lets out a long, weighted breath, steals a quick glance at the back of Harry's phone. "Yeah," he says, turning away again. "Me too."

Harry snaps the picture. "I used to laugh a lot more, you know? I used to go out and know how to have a good time. I wasn't stuck up in my head so much."

"And then you were in a car accident," Louis says. "And things changed. It's okay, Harry. People change all the time."

He doesn't ask to see the photo, doesn't move or shift away when Harry sets his phone on the hard concrete and lays down next to him again, closer this time, the sleeves of their coats brushing, outer edges of their shoes bumping when Harry's feet turn out.

"So, um," Harry clears is throat, feels like he should say something. "I got a phone call the other day. I haven't told anyone about it yet because I don't know what's going to happen with it, but I'm being considered for a magazine shoot."

"Yeah?" Louis says with the same hesitation Harry feels when he thinks about it. It's delicate, they both know it is. Both the subject and the hope that comes with it.

"It might take a few weeks to hear back from them," Harry tells him, "but at least it's something, right?"

His work isn't invisible. His portfolio hasn't gone to waste.

"You're a talented photographer," Louis promises. "You're going to be okay."

He lets his eyes fall shut, Harry glancing over to watch his face smooth out and free itself of whatever residual tension it's been holding onto. It's not clear whether Louis means he'll be okay with the proposed photoshoot or just okay in general, but the conviction in his voice is enough to make Harry want to believe him.

He's going to be okay.

Maybe he hadn't felt that way at all today, not even the past few days, his world crumbling and breaking off in chunks around him, but in their tranquil bubble tonight outside the barricade of the Christmas Market, maybe he feels a little okay. Like he could be okay. Like maybe this won't actually last forever.

He shuts his eyes too, lets the darkness fall upon him as he lies beneath the fairy lights and the trees and the entire blank sky above him. The cold of the concrete seeps in through his coat, the air biting at his face, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. They should probably get going soon, go home, catch up on some of the sleep they've been missing. As much as Harry wishes he could stay in this cool December silence, seemingly frozen in time and space for the rest of eternity, he knows he can't. They can't.

"For what it's worth," he hears Louis murmur after a few minutes pass without a word from either of them, "I still think you're still pretty fun."

Harry forces himself to take one, final, controlled breath, inhaling deep into the pit of his lungs and exhaling slowly. Eyelids fluttering open, he sits up, finds Louis already mirroring him, one hand on the pavement for support.

He doesn't say anything, neither of them do, but Harry feels this pull in his gut that he hasn't felt in quite some time as he tries to think of a response. There's been hints of it brewing beneath the surface over the past few weeks, hints that he could ignore, could pretend weren't there, but this is different. He wishes he couldn't feel this tonight.

With their breaths fogging up the space between them, his gaze automatically drops to Louis' mouth. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe he's not thinking straight. Maybe all he needs to do is thank Louis for being there, for always saying the right thing, for showing up when he'd needed him the most. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe Louis doesn't feel any of this.

When he lifts his eyes, Louis follows, their stares meeting in the middle, silent and unsure, each of them trying to read the other. Harry could do it. He could close the distance between them before either of them has the chance to take their next breath. He knows there's a part of him that could easily do it. He just doesn't know if he wants it. He doesn't know if he could follow through even if he did want it.

He's saved from having to make the choice when Louis turns his head away first.

"We should... we should get you back to your place," he says. He runs his fingers through his hair, clears his throat.

A bizarre sense of disappointment pulses in Harry's chest.

He nods quietly. "Yeah," he nearly whispers, voice sticking on its way out. "That's... that's probably a good idea."

He doesn't make any move to stand up from the ground until Louis does a moment later, the two of them collecting their empty coffee cups, dusting off their backsides in silence.

It's not until they're away from the Christmas Market and heading down the stairs of the nearest tube station that either of them speaks again.

"Thanks," Harry says quietly. "For tonight. For meeting me at the restaurant."

He glances sideways, finds Louis focused on his footsteps, head bent, hands in his pockets. It makes him want to dunk his head in a sink full of ice water. It makes him want to ask Louis what he's thinking, if his thoughts are as twisted and tangled as his are.

"I'm just glad Travis is alright," Louis says.

"Me too," Harry agrees, slowing to a stop where the path splits and he's supposed to go north while Louis heads south. He'd thought they might have gone home together tonight, but separate beds seem like the more appropriate course of action now.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Louis asks then.

Harry's chest aches. It's never really been a question before.

"Of course," he says.

They leave it at that.

He goes home alone that night, his flat as cold as the stairwell leading up to it, the blinds pulled shut with barely any light streaming in from the street below. He leaves the heat off, leaves the living room dark. All he does is brush his teeth, wash his face, and change into a pair of pajama bottoms, his thickest, softest jumper before bundling himself up under his duvet and a mountain of extra blankets. The bed stays empty beside him.

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe a day full of heightened emotions had just heightened that moment.

Maybe it doesn't mean anything.

\---

He tries not to think about it the next day. He wakes up early - or, rather, he gives up on trying to fall back to sleep around six o'clock, and heads to the hospital as soon as the hospital allows, bundled up in his favorite hoodie and his oldest, threadbare skinnies, comfort clothes if he had to put a name to them, because that's what he needs today. He needs stability, needs predictability, he needs comfort, needs someone to tell him not to think so much, needs to shut his brain off.

Louis could help him with all of those things. Louis' been helping him since the accident, holding him steady, making sure he doesn't slip off the rails, keeping him in place. Harry would love nothing more than to have Louis grab him by the shoulders today and remind him to breathe, to stop worrying, to relax and hold his head up, only he's terrified he'd just end up staring at his mouth again, wondering what it might be like to kiss him.

And he's still not sure what he's supposed to do about that.

Travis' room is cool and quiet when he gets there, the lights dimmed, only the early morning sunshine coming in through the open curtains. Harry's stomach drops when his eyes fall upon the body lying motionless in the bed. He hasn't seen Travis look this beaten down and worn out since he'd first been brought in. His face is still flush from his fever, from the stress of his surgery, the ventilator quietly pumping air into his pneumonia-ridden lungs, a new tube leading into his stomach. It's like someone's just taken all of the life left in him and pulled at the ends, stretched it thin and left this ghost of a person behind.

Holding himself back a little, the weight of the night before still pulling at his core, Harry takes a timid seat at Travis' side - his now-ex-boyfriend's side - and brushes the back of his finger up the bare skin of his forearm, feeling only bone where it had always been tender muscle before. This isn't his Travis. It hasn't been his Travis for over two months now. He doesn't have a Travis anymore.

And perhaps that means he's made the right decision to finally end things. If his heart isn't in it, if nothing about this visit feels any different, any less numbing than all the rest of them, then maybe it's because they've been teetering on the edge of this break-up for the past two months anyway. What he's feeling, what he _isn't_ feeling, isn't anything new. He's just finally found the sense to admit it.

They're broken up.

He's single for the first time in three years.

Yet he still feels like he needs to be here.

"'Morning," comes Louis' voice from the doorway, pulling him from his thoughts.

Harry lifts his gaze as he comes into the room, Louis' hair fluffed up like he's just rolled out of bed, another two cups of coffee in his hands from the cafe a few streets over. He sets one on the table and tentatively lowers into the seat beside Harry, unzipping his coat and getting settled in as if Harry hadn't thought about putting his mouth on his the night before.

"Thanks," is all Harry can manage as he twists a bit to grab the coffee with his free hand, eyes lingering on Louis' tired profile for a breath longer than they normally would.

If Louis notices, he doesn't say anything.

"You're here early today," Louis says instead.

"I couldn't sleep much," Harry admits against his better judgement. "What's your excuse?"

"The chocolate cake kept me up," Louis tells him without missing a beat.

"The chocolate cake?"

"Yup," Louis says, ignoring his narrowed eyes. He shifts down in his seat until his head falls against the back of it, his bum nearly on the edge, legs parting slightly, his knee bumping Harry's. So they're not going to talk about it. "Have any of the nurses been in to check on him while you've been here?" he asks, letting his eyes fall shut.

Harry stares at their one point of contact, Louis' sweats warm and soft against his boney knee. Comfort clothes.

"I haven't seen anyone yet," he answers, "but I haven't been here long."

"Well, he looks a little better than yesterday," Louis says.

"Your eyes are closed. You're not even looking at him."

"I'm tired and I'm working late tonight," Louis sighs. "Can we just... I don't know. I wish there were a couch in here we could have a kip on."

"You could always get into bed with him." Harry nods over at Travis.

"Already done that," Louis says. He cracks an eye open just to catch the way Harry's face wrinkles in distaste.

"Don't," Harry warns.

"Too soon?"

"No," Harry shakes his head. "I mean, it is what it is, isn't it? We've both... _done that."_

It feels like a ball of fur rolling off his tongue to say it in those terms.

"Nice," Louis huffs a quiet laugh. "I guess you're part of the club now, though. Another one of Travis' exes."

"I'm not sure I'd call you an ex," Harry says. He gives Louis' knee a gentle nudge. "More like a fling."

"A friend with benefits," Louis muses. "Just a blip on his radar. I think yours was the most serious relationship he's been in, to be honest. You're sure you're ready to put an end to it?"

Harry peels back a bit of the plastic on the lid of his coffee cup, glad that Louis' eyes have fallen shut again. He takes in Travis' gaunt face, his frail limbs, his chest barely moving with each of his mechanical breaths. Somewhere in there is the person he'd loved, the boy who would make him pancakes for breakfast in bed, who'd always sing to him in the shower, who would try to kiss him while they'd be close to tears from laughing, and who had managed to hold his heart for three years without truly giving up his own. But Harry can't find him under everything else he knows about him now. Even after trying to shift some of those new pieces around, digging to find the truth, the Travis he knows just can't be reached while he's sick like this.

"It feels like the right thing to do," he says quietly, because it does, and he knows whatever it is he feels for Travis- it isn't enough anymore.

He hears Louis inhale a long, steady breath beside to him, listens as he exhales with a little more force than usual, like he's holding himself back from saying something else, like there's more on his mind today, maybe even the same as what's on Harry's. Maybe he's trying not to think about it either. Maybe that's why they're both sleep deprived. Maybe they should just leave the hospital in their old, familiar clothes, and fall asleep watching a movie in Louis' living room, pretending nothing has happened between them.

Because nothing _has_ happened.

They'd locked eyes, Harry had drawn in a breath, thought about it, took in the shape of Louis' lips, felt that gentle tug in his belly, and then the moment had ended.

To think of it as anything more than that would be unwise.

"Are you working tonight?" Louis asks him, running his shoe gently up the side of Harry's to get his attention.

"Until eight," Harry says. "Why?"

"How do you feel about me picking up food after my shift and bringing it back to your flat?"

Harry feels like that's a normal thing to do, like there's nothing different going on between them, like everything is fine.

"I think I'd like that," he says, trying not to consider why he feels relief breathing back into his chest.

They're just not going to think about what had almost happened. There's no point in it. It's not going to be a thing.

\---

Exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave as soon as he takes his coat off and turns the heat up in his flat after his shift at the restaurant. He collapses in a heap on the couch and barely even manages to get one shoe off before his eyes are closing and he's snuffling into a pillow like he hasn't slept in days.

Because he hasn't. Not well, at least.

When he wakes, it's because someone's alternating between pounding their fists against his door and slapping it with their hands, and he'd really love for them to stop.

"Harry?" Louis' voice filters in from the other side of the door. "Harry, I saw the light on from outside, I know you're probably in there."

Dazed and disoriented, Harry sits up, takes a moment to gather his senses in his half-lit living room, sluggish and only somewhat aware of what time it is, how he got to his couch.

"Harry," Louis tries again.

"I'm here," Harry calls back, throat dry and scratchy from sleep. "I just woke up, sorry."

"You just woke up?" Louis repeats, and Harry can picture the indignant look on his face. "I was standing outside, freezing my arse off for ten whole minutes and trying to call you before one of your neighbors finally let me in, and you've just been _sleeping?_ "

Harry winces. Everything blurs a bit as he stands, his vision going in and out of focus, muscles aching from the position he'd fallen asleep in. He hadn't heard his phone ring. He hadn't heard any of that. He's just so, so tired.

Still in his work clothes and probably smelling like garlic and onions, possibly sweat, he kicks his other shoe off and goes to let Louis in. It's fine. It should be fine. Louis has seen him like this dozens of times before. There's no sense in overthinking what he looks like when he's not supposed to be thinking about anything in the first place.

When he opens the door, Louis blinks at him, a bag hanging off one arm, cartons of their dinner stacked inside along with a bottle of what Harry can only assume is wine.

"I can't believe you fell asleep," Louis accuses, shaking his head.

Harry yawns. "I can't believe one of my neighbors actually let you in."

"I was ready to turn into an ice lolly out there. I called you four times."

"I must have accidentally put my phone on silent," Harry assumes as he reaches into his pocket to turn the volume back on. Only, he comes up empty, his phone missing from its usual spot. "Shit," he says, trying to remember if he'd had it in his coat pocket on his way home. And then he realizes - he'd taken it out at work and left it in the back office when he'd gone to say goodbye to Niall. "It's at the restaurant."

"That's useful." Louis rolls his eyes before beckoning him closer. "Come here."

"Why?"

"So I can slap you," Louis deadpans as he steps closer and Harry ducks away. "No, just come here. Your hair's just gone a bit wild."

He reaches up before Harry can react, his fingers tangling in Harry's barely-grown curls and pushing them back into place.

"Is this really necessary?" Harry sighs.

Louis nods, tugging at the ends. "You look like you've had your head squashed between two couch cushions."

"Because I have," Harry tells him. Louis pulls at another handful of curls and Harry hisses. "Fuck, what was that for?"

"You fucking fell asleep," Louis snaps.

"It was an accident," Harry groans as he pries Louis' hand from his head before he receives any more bodily harm.

"You could have at least waited for me," Louis argues. "Wasn't that the plan? Eat, drink, fall asleep in front of the telly?"

"Yes," Harry says, "and I'm sorry. I honestly hadn't meant to."

Louis glares at him. Harry's still holding his hand.

"Just get inside," Louis sighs. He doesn't wait for Harry to let go of him. He just twists his hand in Harry's grip, flattens his palm against his chest, and gives him an easy push over the threshold. "I think your neighbors have heard enough of me yelling in the stairwell tonight."

"They probably should have left you out in the cold," Harry says, palm still pressed to the back of Louis' hand, subconsciously holding it in place.

Louis snorts. "H, just go," he says before giving him another little shove past the door, his fingers pressing into the fabric over Harry's heart.

Reluctantly, Harry takes a step back and Louis' hand drops from his chest. With the ghost of his touch still radiating out of his skin, he watches the door swing shut, heat blooming somewhere deep within his lungs again despite it being a little chilly in his flat, and despite running on very little sleep.

It's okay, he thinks, as he takes the bag of food off Louis' arm and carries it to the kitchen while Louis removes his coat and trainers. It's okay to feel something like this around him, to feel some sort of _anything_ around him. He's a friend. He obviously cares about Harry in some capacity, and Harry trusts him, trusts Louis in ways that he can no longer say he trusts his own ex-boyfriend. It's only natural to feel a connection like this after going through everything together. It's okay to feel good spending time with him when everything else is falling to pieces.

It's okay.

He's not breaking any rules. He's not doing anything he shouldn't. They're just friends. Just... really good friends.

He turns around after setting all of the food and the bottle of wine on the table, catches Louis watching him from across the room, something curious pulling at his face. The heat in his chest pulses like a flame.

"Hungry?" he asks, because it's easier than asking if Louis' alright.

"Starving," Louis says, coming up beside him. "I wasn't sure what you were in the mood for, so I might have picked out a little of everything."

"And wine," Harry notes.

Louis nods, reaching for the bottle. "And wine."

He carries it over to the drawer with the corkscrew in it, knows his way around the flat like he belongs there.

"Are you planning on getting me drunk tonight?" Harry asks, watching him dig through pens and fresh batteries, clips he uses to seal bags of crisps, and a roll of postage stamps, until he finds the corkscrew.

"Only with your consent," Louis answers absently before he pulls out a colorful magnet souvenir Harry had picked up on his and Travis' one and only shared holiday two years ago. He turns, holds it up for Harry to see. "Is this from your trip to Spain?"

Harry nods, tries not to think about that trip, a long weekend spent in a mediocre hotel, fifteen minutes from a mediocre beach, the best they could afford.

"We had it on the fridge for a while," Harry says, "but the magnet part broke off."

Louis sets it carefully back in the drawer and nudges it shut. "Now that you're not together anymore," he starts as he begins peeling off the top of the wine bottle, "have you thought about what you're going to do with all of his stuff?"

He motions towards the refrigerator and its half a dozen other magnets, one from Travis' trip to Chicago, another holding up a photo of himself and Travis, a third keeping a set of photo booth photos from falling down, Harry getting closer and closer to planting a kiss on Travis' mouth as the photos progress.

There's the fridge magnets, the photos, Travis' shoes still by the door where he'd left them the morning of the accident. There's Travis' clothes still folded in the dresser drawers. There's all of his hoodies and jumpers still hanging in the closet, his reading glasses still sitting on the bedside table.

Harry hasn't made a single move to put anything away, honestly hasn't even let the thought cross his mind.

"I, um, I'm not sure, actually," he says, stomach sinking the longer he stares at the photos of them on the fridge. He's kind of just been avoiding looking at everything Travis-related for the past two months. "We can... we can take these down, I guess."

He gently plucks the photos from beneath their magnets, sets them face-down in the drawer, shuts it before he can overthink it.

"And the rest?" Louis asks, keeping his voice careful, like he knows he's walking on a fine line.

"The rest might take some time," Harry answers truthfully. He's still adjusting, still finding his footsteps, has barely even dipped his toes into post-accident, post-breakup singledom. He hasn't figured any of this out yet.

"Well," Louis says, screwing the corkscrew into the top of the bottle, "if you ever decide you want someone to take his stuff off your hands..."

He doesn't have to finish the offer. Harry knows he'll be there.

"Thanks," he says with a weak smile.

"It's what I'm here for." Louis pulls the cork out with a hollow _pop._ He pours two full glasses, passes one to Harry, clinks them together. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Harry echoes.

They load their plates in the kitchen and take them to the living room. While Harry excuses himself to quickly change out of his work clothes, Louis grabs the remote and browses through their viewing options, settling on a film they've both seen multiple times in case one of them ends up falling asleep ten minutes in. At least that's what he tells Harry when Harry comes back into the living room and raises an eyebrow at the selection.

Louis is proven right, though, when each of their eyelids start to droop as soon as they've finished their meals. He's right about the movie, right about packing up Travis' things, right to have poured them each a massive glass of wine, because he ends up cuddled into Harry's side despite Harry's intentions to keep a little, healthy distance between them all night, and Harry's glad to be a little buzzed, glad that he can't tell the difference between the alcohol burning in his veins and that heat glowing hotter in his stomach, glad that he doesn't have to acknowledge that both of those feelings might exist at the same time.

\---

They fall asleep together in Harry's bed.

Harry wakes up again to the sound of someone knocking on his door. It's a gentle knock this time, patient, like the person behind it doesn't want to wake the entire building at whatever time of day it is.

Much like the night before, it takes him a moment to gather his senses and remember how he'd gotten there. Unlike the night before, when he goes to get up and finally answer the door, there's an arm draped across his middle and his ex-boyfriend's best friend is snuffling warm breaths into his shoulder.

It does absolutely nothing to help the small problem Harry's been faced with.

Squinting through the morning light, he rolls his head to the side and feels relief wash over him when he sees Louis is somehow, miraculously, still asleep. And yet, his face still heats up like a fireplace when he tries to extract himself from Louis' hold and Louis' first unconscious instinct is to snuggle closer.

Harry takes a deep breath. He just has to do it, just pull himself out of there like he's ripping off a bandage.

He exhales, gets up from the bed and doesn't look back as he hurries out of the room with his bare feet cold on the wood floor

It's Niall.

"What are you doing here?" Harry whispers, standing in the doorway in just his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, confused.

"You left your phone at work last night," Niall tells him, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Thought you might like it."

"Oh," Harry says as Niall holds the phone out between them. "Thanks. You didn't have to drop it off. I could have waited until tonight."

"And be a nervous wreck all day, wondering if you've missed a call from the hospital?" Niall raises a knowing eyebrow.

He doesn't have to call Harry out like that.

"You don't have to call me out like that."

"But it's so easy," Niall says, giving Harry's head a little pat. "Did you just wake up? Your hair's sticking out in every direction."

"Is it?" Harry asks, stepping back into the living room where there's a small mirror on the wall.

Niall follows him in.

Harry doesn't think anything of it until he turns, expecting Niall to give his hair another once-over, and, instead, finds him staring through his open bedroom door, a look of deep concern slowly carving itself into his face.

"Who's that?" he asks, voice serious as he nods towards the very human-shaped lump lying in Harry's bed.

Harry waits for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. When it doesn't, he clears his throat, reminds himself that nothing actually happened, that they're just friends, that all they did was share a bed. That they've done this before.

"That's Louis," he tells Niall, watching the concern bleed out of his face and morph into the worst, most awful smirk he's ever seen. "Don't," he warns before Niall can open his mouth again. "Just don't. He came over after work and we were both tired, had a drink, and he stayed the night. That's it."

"That's it?"

"I swear that's it," Harry insists. "Please don't make this into something it isn't."

It's bad enough that he's had his own internal struggles with this over the past day. He doesn't need Niall skewing whatever this is one way or the other.

"He's a good lad," is all Niall says, which. Sure. Yes. Louis is a good lad, a good person. Harry doesn't deny that. He'd thought Travis was a good person too.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks instead of responding. "Coffee? Tea? Last night's leftovers?"

"By 'last night's leftovers,' are you referring to...?" He points a casual finger towards the bedroom.

Harry grabs his hand and bends his finger back into place before Niall can even take another breath. "No," he says. "No. Stop. No."

"Oh, look," Niall says. "He's waking up."

Harry scrubs a hand down his face, feels his heart kick into gear again, stomach lurching. He risks a glance into his bedroom, finds Louis indeed stretching, sitting up, blinking around slowly to try and figure out where he is. Eventually, he locks eyes with Harry, all sleep rumpled and soft even with the quizzical look that falls upon his face after he spots Niall there as well. He gives a short wave.

"Morning," he rasps. "Hi, Niall."

"Hey, Tommo," Niall replies. "Just dropping off Harry's phone. Did you have a good night?"

Louis' little frown deepens. He tries to catch Harry's eyes again, but Harry keeps his gaze resolutely down, staring at his folded arms.

"Uh, yeah," Louis decides after a moment of hesitation. "Yeah, it was fine. Dinner was good, right?"

"Yup," Harry agrees shortly.

"The wine was good, too."

"It was." Harry nods. He can still see their empty glasses sitting on the table beside the half finished bottle. Niall sees it as well. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. The bemused sparkle in his eyes and the crooked tilt to his smile says it all for him.

"Are you staying for breakfast?" Louis asks.

Before Niall can answer, Harry shakes his head. "No, he was just on his way out, actually."

"I was?" Niall asks.

"You were," Harry says, setting his phone on the nearest flat surface and leading Niall to the door.

As soon as he manages to get Niall to go, he goes back to his bedroom and flops down in the empty space beside Louis, his face sinking into his pillow.

Louis doesn't say anything for a long moment, just sits there, the duvet pooled around his waist.

And then, "Niall thinks we slept together, doesn't he?"

Harry almost chokes on his own saliva.

"He's just being a dick," he says, thankful that his face is hidden. "He knows we didn't."

"Oh," Louis says. "Okay."

He leaves it at that.

\---

Everything sort of falls to pieces after that.

Two days later, Travis goes into cardiac arrest. Harry gets the phone call while he's out at the pub. As soon as he sees the hospital's number light up on his screen, he slips outside, phone pressed to his ear, heart speeding up behind his ribcage.

He's stable, they have him closely monitored, he just hadn't been getting enough oxygen to his heart.

"He's alright," Louis tells him at least six times when he comes outside with Harry's coat and finds him just standing there, staring at the black screen of his phone, arms bare against the cold. "They got him back. His heart's still going. He's alright."

They go back inside after passing a desperately needed cigarette back and forth, and when they sit down across from Liam and Niall, and Louis relays the news over another beer, no one says anything about the fact that Louis keeps his arm around Harry's waist, his hand resting protectively on his hip. No one comments on the fact that Harry stays quiet and ends up leaning closer into Louis' side the longer the night goes on. And when they get in the same cab and go home together, no one bats an eyelash.

Liam does try to get a word in the next afternoon, though. Right before Harry goes to leave the hospital for work, he follows him out to the lift, squeezes in alongside two other nurses and a doctor, and gives him a warning that Harry's not sure he deserves.

"Be careful," is all he says at first, an attempt at being vague and discrete.

Harry furrows his brow at him, exhausted from another night without sleep, nauseous from getting the full medical report a few hours earlier.

"About what?" he mumbles.

"I see the way you are with each other," Liam elaborates without mentioning Louis' name in front of possible coworkers. "I know he's there for you in ways that Niall and I can't be, and I know it's because of how close you both are to Trav, and that's fine. It's different between you two. Maybe that's all there is to it, or maybe there's more, but I just want you to be careful either way. Please."

He gives Harry a meaningful look, his eyes earnest and sad, like it's paining him to say this even though he thinks it needs to be said, and Harry just blinks back at him.

"Is that it?" he asks.

The doors open on the ground floor.

"That's it," Liam nods.

Harry steps off the lift.

He doesn't even have time to stop and consider what Liam means, because one tube ride later, he's hurrying up the stairs and out the station doors, and vomiting into the nearest bin.

His boss sends him home before he can even step foot inside the restaurant. The thought of going another day without getting paid has him nearly puking again on the way back to his flat, but he holds it in, swallows it down, barely manages to make it up to his bathroom before his stomach lurches and he finds himself camped out in front of the toilet for the next few hours.

Eventually, he makes it to his bed. Eventually, he's able to focus on his phone without feeling like his head's about to roll off his neck. Eventually, he manages to text Louis not to come over, that he has some sort of stomach bug, that he hopes whatever it is, Louis hasn't caught it too.

And then he sleeps.

And when he wakes again, it's dark outside and he's drenched in sweat, and he'd probably believe someone if they were to tell him three weeks had somehow passed while he was out, but it's only ten o'clock and his body has never felt this empty in his entire life.

He finds two messages from Louis on his phone and a missed call from Niall.

_You have the worst luck, Styles. Get some rest, drink plenty of fluids, let me know when you feel better. xx_

_PS I might have dropped off some things for you. I asked your neighbor to leave them outside your door._

Somehow, despite already feeling a thousand degrees too hot, reading these leaves him ready to combust.

He sits there with his head hanging between his knees for another five minutes, neck aching, throat burning, stomach still threatening to upend itself if he so much as swings a leg over the side of the bed, but he does make it to his feet in the end. He does make it to his door, and he does find the basket of canned soups and bland crackers, sports drinks and ginger ale, and a little note attached to a stuffed bear that reads "Get well soon!" And it's a lot.

It's a lot, and it claws away at something inside of him, something he wishes wasn't there, something he's been trying not to think about, trying to brush off as nothing, a fleeting emotion, a fluke ever since he first recognized it.

He brings the basket inside, sets it on his bedside table, curls up under his duvet and starts a new text to Louis. He types and erases, types and erases, but nothing seems to cover all that he wants to say, all that he feels like he should say, the hundreds of thoughts swimming around in his head.

In the end he's left with two words.

_Thank you. x_

He presses send and throws he phone into the pile of clothes at the far corner of his room, doesn't want to look at it for the rest of the night. He sleeps until he has to get up and empty his stomach again, and then he sleeps some more.

\---

Three days pass before he regains enough of his strength to be able to leave his flat again. There's a knot in his throat when he calls his boss and tells her he's feeling better, that he'll be there for his shift, a knot that doesn't go away because he's missed half a week of work, half a paycheck, money that he desperately needs right now and doesn't have.

It's fine, he's been telling himself. He'll go easy on the groceries for the rest of the month. He'll stretch out his meals, make leftovers last longer. He'll skip on takeaway, on cups of coffee, on drinks out with the lads. If he needs to, he'll cut his cable and wifi for a few months, just go downstairs to the cafe and use theirs for free whenever he needs it. He can still scrape up enough to buy his train ticket home for Christmas. Maybe not a return ticket, but he can always borrow a car or ask his mum to drive back with him. And flowers. He can still manage flowers for his mum at the very least because he refuses to go home without a single Christmas gift. It's fine. Everything is fine.

He doesn't see Louis at all that first day back in the land of the living.

He goes to the hospital in the morning but Louis is busy working his shift in another wing. Harry texts him to say he's mostly better and spending time with Travis if Louis has a chance to swing by on his break, but he sits there for three hours while Travis' machines whir and hum away and keep him breathing, and Louis never shows up.

But Travis' parents do.

Harry has seen them on and off since the pneumonia started, usually not for long. They tend to visit in the afternoons according to Louis, who refuses to sit with them if they're there. Harry would, too, only he's not about to just get up and leave as soon as they enter the room.

No, he waits until they've somehow managed to pull from him the fact that he'd recently decided to end his relationship with their son - a fact that they don't appear too surprised to hear - before he starts to feel the weight of their scrutiny bearing down upon him and makes up an excuse to get out of there.

So he doesn't see Louis that day, nor does he see him the day after, but the Monday before Christmas, Harry gets a call from Donna, asking if he can meet her for a quick lunch later that week to discuss something, and Harry, anxious as all hell, finds himself pacing around Louis' living room later that night because it's the only place he could think to go once he'd left the restaurant.

"Maybe she just wants to get to know you," Louis theorizes once he's given Harry an impromptu checkup to make sure he really, truly is over his stomach bug. Harry hasn't thrown up in three days. He's over it.

"If she wanted to get to know me, she shouldn't have waited for me to break up with her son," Harry points out, rifling through the stack of CDs atop Louis' book case.

"Maybe she's short on cash," Louis says, "and she's hoping you'll forge a check from Travis' account for her."

"That's not funny," Harry says.

"And yet you wouldn't be surprised."

"I wouldn't," Harry agrees. "But I don't think even _she_ would stoop that low."

"Maybe she'll just straight up ask you for the money instead," Louis guesses as Harry sets the CDs down and goes to have a peek out the window, see what's happening below.

"She'd be wasting her time," he says, forehead nearly pressed to the glass.

Louis is quiet for a moment, his reflection focused on Harry until Harry turns around. "You don't think..."

But he cuts himself off, shakes his head, doesn't finish his thought.

"I don't think what?" Harry asks, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"Nothing," Louis insists. "Forget it."

"Lou, if there's a reason you can think of that I haven't come up with yet," Harry says, "I'd rather be prepared for it than go in blind."

"You don't want to hear this one," Louis tells him, sitting up on his couch, hugging his knees to his chest. "I promise you, you don't want to hear it."

But Harry doesn't care. "What is it?"

"Harry."

"Just fucking tell me," Harry sighs. He's already a ball of nerves about it. What's one more guess going to do?

"I just thought," Louis says slowly, wincing at his own words, "maybe they're considering, you know... ending Travis' care."

Harry's heart sinks. "Oh."

"Yeah," Louis says.

"It hasn't even been three months," Harry says, a whole new wave of anxiety and dread crashing down upon him. "They have to give him more time than that."

"Most coma patients don't wake up after the first week or two," Louis reminds him gently. "Maybe they see him struggling, see him getting sick, his heart stopping, having to go through surgery, and maybe they're just trying to figure out what's in Travis' best interest."

"They have no idea what's in his best interest," Harry huffs, pacing across the living room again. "They hardly even know him."

"And now you think you do?" Louis raises an eyebrow.

"Better than they do," Harry says, because does. He believes it. It doesn't matter what Travis did or didn't tell him, it doesn't matter that he can't connect with the person lying in the hospital bed these days. He knows Travis better than the Lowells. Anyone who knew Travis would know him better than the Lowells.

"He's still their son, Harry," Louis tells him. "If they're thinking of taking him off all forms of life support, I'm sure they're not taking it lightly. If that's even why Donna wants to meet with you, then she's probably just looking for your thoughts on it."

"On killing her son?" Harry shakes his head. Even when he'd been living on his bathroom floor for all of the past week, he'd never felt so sick.

"On giving him peace," Louis amends, and Harry wants to ask how he can say that, how he can even _think_ that, but he locks eyes with Louis across the living room and all he can see is his own pain mirrored in the cloudy blue of Louis' irises, everything he feels staring straight back at him.

"Maybe she just wants to get to know me," Harry says quietly, his insides twisted up.

Louis nods, nails digging into the sleeves of his hoodie. "Maybe she just wants to get to know you."

\---

They schedule to have lunch the day before Christmas Eve, the day before Harry leaves to go home for the first time in months, the day before Louis' birthday.

It's all Harry can think about all morning.

He spends the hours before his lunch with Donna trying to bake Louis his promised birthday cake, his hands shaking so hard he drops an egg on the kitchen floor, his thoughts so scattered he nearly forgets to set the timer on the oven, and his stomach churning so hard that the chocolate starts to smell more nauseating than sweet after a while.

"Harry, you don't have to bake me a cake," Louis tells him over the phone while Harry waits for the layers to cool once they're out of the oven. "You've had such a shit few weeks, I would completely understand it if you showed up empty handed tonight. Hell, I'd even forgive you if you decided to stay home."

"Would you really?" Harry asks, sitting on the floor of his kitchen, back against the cabinets, knees pulled all the way up to his chest, feeling miserable.

Louis stays quiet for a breath too long. "Of course I would."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you're full of shit," he mutters. "Thanks for trying."

"All for you, love," Louis says, and Harry can hear the gentle smirk in his voice, the one Louis gets when he's tired, when Harry's tired too, when he can't quite manage the laugh, the real thing, but he's teasing anyway. Harry kind of hates how perfectly he can picture it.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to lunch with me?" he asks one last time, figures he might as well throw it out there before it's too late.

"I wasn't invited," Louis reminds him.

"I'm inviting you."

"I still have another four hours on my shift," Louis says. He's only on his break right now, sat in the nurses' lounge with a ham and cheese sandwich apparently.

"Otherwise you'd join me?" Harry asks.

"Oh, in a heartbeat."

Harry adjusts his grip on the phone. _"So_ full of shit."

_"Hey,"_ Louis' tinny voice comes through the speaker. "I would. If you genuinely asked me to be there and I thought you actually needed someone, I would be there. But I'm at work and I can't leave, and we both know you're only imagining the worst case scenario."

"Because you put it in my head," Harry says, frustrated. "I wouldn't be thinking it if you hadn't brought it up."

Call it naivety, call it blind faith, but he never would have imagined Donna would want to discuss ending her own son's life if it weren't for Louis imagining it first.

"If that's what she wants to talk to you about," Louis says, trying to keep his voice calm despite the underlying layer of desperation to it, "then you can tell her to fuck off. Honestly. I give you permission."

Harry exhales, tips his head back against the cabinets, his jaw locked tight. He knows Louis is trying, but this isn't helping him at all.

"I need to decorate your cake," he says instead of responding. "Twenty-nine, right?"

"The last year of my youth," Louis responds solemnly. "You're working late tonight?"

Harry nods. "Unless Pete wants to swap."

"Which he won't."

"Which he won't," Harry sighs in agreement.

"I'll save a shot or two for you," Louis promises. If he sounds a little down about it, if he's sad that Harry won't be there until the later half of the party, if he's worried about spending time apart over the Christmas holidays, well, he's not the only one.

\---

Donna meets him at a bustling local cafe halfway between the hospital and Harry's flat a little after noon, right in the middle of every working human in London's lunch hour, or so it seems. They squeeze into a table for two between a group of coworkers dressed in their business attire, and a family of tourists who stick out amongst the locals as much as Harry feels like he does when he stares across the table and locks eyes with the mother of his comatose ex-boyfriend.

Her eyes are the same as Travis' eyes. Harry can't remember missing his eyes this much in the nearly three months that they've been closed.

All around their table there's the humming of Christmas music pouring out through the cafe speakers. There's the clinking of silverware on dishes, mugs and glasses thudding against hard surfaces, the amicable murmur of friends and workmates, families, _people_ , all buzzing together into this melody that sounds like _life._

All Harry can hear is the rush of static in his ears, his own heartbeat, the shallowness of his own breath.

He looks into Donna's eyes, _Travis'_ eyes, and he tries to make sense of the words coming out of her mouth.

"We're transferring Travis to a long-term care facility in Doncaster," Donna says.

And at first, there's relief. There's relief because they aren't taking Travis off the ventilator, they aren't ending his life support, they aren't extinguishing any chances of him surviving this, and they aren't _murdering their son._ Travis can still get better, still wake up, still pull off a miracle, and that's great. That's good news.

Except it doesn't feel like good news.

Maybe it's not on the same gut-wrenching magnitude as giving up hope and pulling the plugs, but that had never truly been a possibility, had it? Louis had thrown it out as a guess, a worst-case-scenario, had tried to convince Harry that it wouldn't actually happen, and yes, it's wonderful that it _isn't_ happening, not yet at least, but as soon as the relief washes over Harry, it starts to drain right back out of him like a wave receding to the ocean after crashing upon the shore.

He's left sitting there, feeling cold, empty, numb, his lungs flooded like he's inhaled a mouthful of water, his ears unable to focus, his entire body feeling the effects of this.

This isn't good news.

"It's too much for Greg and I," Donna keep speaking despite Harry having not said a word of acknowledgement. "With the pneumonia and the surgery, these past few weeks have taken a lot out of us and we can't continue traveling back and forth like this. If he's closer- if he's home with us, we can be there for him. We can look out for him and make sure he gets the best care. It'll be like a weight off your shoulders."

Harry blinks at her, thinks he might be sick. "A weight off my shoulders?"

He digs his fingernails into the soft corduroy of his trousers, tries to feel something, _anything_ other than the pain burning in his chest.

"Well, with you deciding to end your relationship with Travis," Donna explains, "it'll be freeing to have him out of your hands, won't it?"

Harry doesn't say anything. He can't believe this is happening.

"Don't get me wrong," Donna continues, her long, narrow fingers curling around her barely-touched cup of tea. "Greg and I appreciate all that you've done for our son. Your dedication to him over these last couple of weeks has been very sweet considering- well, considering your circumstances with him. But we've spoken with his doctors and we feel it's the right time to bring him home."

The words roll off her tongue and every syllable ends up crashing to the ground, shattering like shards of splintered glass. The way she says _our son_ sends needles pricking Harry's skin, as if she's ever been anything like a mother to Travis, as if Travis has considered her or Greg his family since he'd run away from their house as a teenager. They aren't his home. Doncaster isn't his home. His home is with the people who love him, and from everything Harry has ever heard Travis say about his parents, he knows his home is not with them.

He shakes his head, tries to bite down any seething retorts he'd love to make.

"I just... I don't understand," he manages to get out, his voice as unsteady as he feels. "Travis' friends are here. His doctors are here. His life is here." _I'm here._

"And his family is in Doncaster," Donna says with a certain edge of finality to her tone. She pulls her teacup towards her, eyes meeting Harry's again before she lowers them to her saucer. "He's our son, first and foremost. If something happens to him, we can't be three and a half hours away anymore."

Harry's heart sinks another notch. Three and a half hours is a long way away. It's an expensive train ticket. It's a hotel room to stay overnight. It's at least two days without pay from work, three if he wants to make the trip worth the expense.

"What about the pneumonia?" he asks, hopes dwindling. "He can't breathe on his own. His heart literally stopped last week. If you transfer him now, you could kill him."

"The hospital won't allow the move until he's healthy enough," Donna assures him. "We're aware of all of this, Harry. We're not trying to kill him."

"Then why risk it?" Harry has to ask.

"Because he's been ill for almost three weeks," Donna says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We've put our lives on hold to be down here with him, but the next time he falls ill, we can't afford to do this again."

"And I can't afford frequent trips to Doncaster," Harry says as if that could ever be enough of a reason for her to let Travis stay.

Donna just stares at him, still clutching her teacup, shoulders tense and lips pursed like she's been sucking on a lemon all day. "Well," she says slowly, eyes falling once again, "seeing as you're no longer in a relationship with him, I hope you can understand why that wasn't a factor in our decision."

It makes the blood in Harry's veins run cold.

_"You're just good, Styles,"_ Travis had said, the very last conversation they'd had together. _"And my parents... Sometimes, they just aren't. You don't want to meet them."_

Harry wishes he hadn't. He wishes he'd never gotten to know how truly awful they are, wishes he'd never heard from Louis about all of the terrible ways they'd treated their son. He wishes there had never been an accident. He wishes he could just go back three months to when everything was fine, maybe not perfect, but to when he'd had a boyfriend who he'd loved and he hadn't had a reason not to love him, and he couldn't blame himself for any of this.

Because this feels like it's his own fault now.

If he hadn't ended things, if he had just been able to forgive Travis and forget about all of the problems they'd been having, all of the new things he'd come to learn and all of the questions he'd started to have, if he had just fought a little harder for them, Donna wouldn't be sitting across from him, telling him she's about to take away the person who's still holding onto several significant pieces of his heart.

Travis may have had his faults, but the thought of him being all alone and halfway up the country is enough to send a sickening shiver of guilt up Harry's spine.

"I still care about him," he says, and it feels like the words have been ripped straight from his vocal cords.

"I know you do," Donna says. "But what's going to happen when you stop?"

\---

Their lunch doesn't extend much further than that. Donna doesn't finish her tea and Harry doesn't order anything to eat, and maybe it's not much of a lunch at all, but it leaves Harry feeling like absolute shit as he tries to find his way back home once they exchange their tense goodbyes.

As he unlocks his door, he receives a phone call from the woman at the photo agency telling him he didn't get the photoshoot.

As he dresses for work, he gets a reminder that his rent is due in a week.

He packs a rucksack with his change of clothes for Louis' party, boxes Louis' birthday cake along with some candles, and ignores the text from Louis asking how the meet-up went. It'll only ruin Louis' afternoon if Harry tells him now. It'll ruin his party, ruin his birthday, ruin his Christmas holidays, and it's not worth getting into over text when Harry knows this is a conversation they should have in person.

The tube is more crowded than he's seen in a while. He squeezes inside between the bodies all bundled up for the winter, the cake held between his gloved hands, pressed against his chest and the grab bar like it's the most important thing in the world.

It's all he can focus on. When he starts to think about anything else, it's like he can feel his ropes unravelling, the fibers snapping, thinning out and threatening to leave him completely untethered. If he just focuses on the box, on the sway of the train as it glides along the underground tracks, then maybe he'll make it to the restaurant and through his shift. Maybe he'll make it to the party, to Louis.

As soon as he arrives at work, he stores the cake in the fridge, glad that Niall isn't there to ask him what's wrong or why he looks like he's swallowed a toad. Abby doesn't say anything. She's too busy complaining to Tim about having to work Christmas Eve.

"But it's a holiday," Tim reminds her, even if he's only been working there for a few months. "Don't you get paid twice as much?"

"Time and a half," Abby corrects him. "But tips are usually higher too since it's mostly tourists and everyone feels bad that you're working on Christmas Eve."

"That actually sounds alright," Tim says, rolling up his sleeves and grabbing one of the server books from the wall. "Unless you have plans?"

"Not really," Abby shrugs."I mean, I wouldn't mind skipping all the Christmas traffic, but at least I'm not working both days."

"Who's working Christmas?"

"Why?" Abby asks. "Are you looking to take our shifts?"

"No," Tim shakes his head. "I'm just asking."

It's a wild, impulsive decision, spurred on by the growing, sucking, vacuum-like hole in Harry's chest that has Harry volunteering himself without a second thought.

"I'll take them," he says, trying not to drown with the weight of his own offer. Both heads snap up as if they hadn't even noticed him standing there. "If you're looking to go home tomorrow," he says, "I'll cover your shift. Same for whoever's working Christmas- I'll cover for them too if they want."

"Are you serious?" Abby asks, frowning at him like she doesn't know what to make of it. "I thought you were going home?"

"I-" Harry starts, but he shakes his head, feels a little hysterical. "Plans changed," is all he says.

Because why not? He has no money. All of his bills need to be paid within the week. He hasn't even bought his train ticket home yet and the photoshoot's fallen through. He's missed too many days of work between Travis contracting pneumonia and the stomach bug rendering him useless. And now he has to save for future trips to Doncaster or he'll never see Travis again.

He might as well not go home for Christmas. He might as well work through the holidays, save up some money, avoid the overbearing pressure of his family while they try to suffocate him with care and affection and kind words that he doesn't need to hear.

It's fine. He's fine. He doesn't need to see his mum anyway. He doesn't know if he could bear it. He can do this.

"Deal," Abby says, making it final. "Text Valerie. She volunteered to take eight hours on Christmas before she found out her brother was visiting. She's been looking for someone to cover for her."

"Okay," Harry says before he can talk himself out of it. He pushes a few unruly curls off his forehead, exhales, feels his insides clench and unclench restlessly. "Thanks."

He shoots off a text to Valerie before his shift begins, thumbs fumbling over his screen, head swimming, heart racing even as it sinks lower and lower in his chest. This is fine, he tells himself again. His mum will understand. It's okay if he spends Christmas alone. He could use the time to unwind, come back around, accept everything that's going on.

Maybe he'll be better off alone. No one's going to want him around anyway when he's falling apart like this.

He hears back from Valerie within less than a minute, and then it's official.

And it all feels so fucked up.

He pockets his phone, doesn't tell his mum, doesn't know when or how he's going to break the news to her, and goes out to wait on his first table.

\---

He has no idea how he makes it through his shift.

He changes back into his jumper and corduroy trousers in the employees' restroom, shaking from sheer exhaustion, his muscles jumping, unsteady, unable to relax. It's the kind of exhaustion that's so beyond _tried,_ everything depleted to the point where he can't shut down and his nerves are overworked into malfunction, put on high alert instead of turning off.

He'd love more than anything to just go home, crawl into his bed, and sleep all of this off, but there's a boy waiting for him at a party that's been going on for two hours now, and he's kind of the only person Harry wants to see.

With the box containing Louis' birthday cake tucked under his arm, he rides the tube down to Louis' flat, wishing it could be just them tonight instead of the number of people he knows awaits him.

And then the train lurches to a stop and the person behind Harry loses their balance. They topple into him, crush the cake box between Harry's side and the grab rail, and Harry nearly ignites and goes up in flames on the spot.

He can't do this anymore.

He can't _feel_ this anymore.

Ever since the accident, it's like his life has just been steadily spiraling out of his control, picking up speed, leaving him more and more helpless the longer it goes on. And he can't stop it. He can't slow it down, press pause, can't get a grip on anything for long enough to steady himself and stop things from going wrong.

And it's just a cake.

It's just a fucking cake.

Yet it feels like an entire ocean dropped on his shoulders, and he can't for the life of him shake it off.

Fingers trembling like nothing else, he tries his best to flatten out the dents in the box to make it square again, eyes glossing over and blurring his vision. He doesn't open the box, knows whatever remains of its contents will most likely just catapult him over the edge.

Instead, he gets off the train, takes a moment to collect himself on the platform, and then he heads to Louis' party.

The main door's unlocked when he gets there. He lets himself in, barely noticing how quiet it is until he's halfway up the stairs and Louis' door is closed and there's no music playing, no party guests coming in and out, no chatter drifting out through the walls. Confused and two seconds away from going back outside to make sure he's in the right building, he tries Louis' doorknob, finds it unlocked as well.

Only, there's no party going on inside.

There's just Louis, sitting on his couch, twisting his head around at the sound of the door opening, and Harry, standing in the entrance, wondering where the hell everyone is.

"Hi," Louis says.

"Where is everyone?" Harry frowns, glancing around, not a decoration in sight, not even a case of beer.

"I cancelled the party," Louis says without further explanation as he gets up from the couch to greet him. "Is that my cake?"

He nods towards the dented box in Harry's hands, Harry's last bit of dignity clinging on by a thread the closer Louis gets to seeing the disaster that sits inside.

"It might have gotten crushed on the way here," he says, holding it more firmly against his body on instinct. He doesn't move from the doorway, doesn't know what's going on, doesn't know why the party's been cancelled or why Louis hadn't bothered to tell him. All he knows is he's _this close_ to having a proper meltdown and nothing, not even this, is going as planned.

"I'm sure it still tastes fine," Louis says quietly. He stops in front of Harry, his socked feet shuffling along the rug, and he's just in his jeans and a t-shirt, hair a little rumpled, and Harry's chest hurts.

"Travis' parents are transferring him to Doncaster," he says.

Louis just nods, wraps his fingers around the edge of the box, and gently pries it from Harry's grip.

"I know," he says. He sets the cake on the table by the door. "Donna called after she finished lunch with you. Guess she didn't want to tell me in person."

"I don't want him to be all alone up there," Harry says, absolutely hating the thought of it, even after everything he's been through with Travis.

Louis shakes his head, reaches out to help undo the top buttons of his coat.

"He won't be," he promises. "We'll make sure of it."

"Yeah?" Harry rolls his stinging eyes. "Who's going to visit?"

"You," Louis says, blinking up at him. "Me. Us. I'll go with you. Maybe we won't be there every day, but maybe once a week, once every other week. He won't be alone."

Harry knows that's not going to happen, knows he can't make that work. "If you think I can afford a trip to Doncaster every two weeks, then you've lost your fucking mind."

"Hey," Louis warns. "My family's up there. We'll stay with them. We'll figure it out."

"Lou, I'm serious," Harry says, throat aching as he lifts his hands to still Louis' fingers, everything pent up inside of him ready to tumble out. "I don't have the money. I'm barely making ends meet as it is. If I make it up there, it's once a month, once every two months. I'm not even going home tomorrow."

Even just saying the words out loud makes his heart crack open again.

Louis lets his fingers slip from the buttons, his hands just resting against Harry's chest. "You're not going home?"

Harry takes a deep breath, nausea coming back in full force.

"I can't," he says, trying his best to ignore the pressure of having Louis' attention on him like this, like a spotlight beaming up at him. "I'm staying here and I'm working. I can't afford the days off. I can't afford to see my mum."

"What about... What about that photoshoot?" Louis asks, painfully hopeful. "You could still get the money from that?"

"I didn't get the photoshoot," Harry says.

"Oh."

"Yeah," Harry exhales, feeling like the world is caving in on him again, feeling like a train car broken loose from its engine, barreling down the tracks, speeding up, ready to crash. He can't get a grip on anything, can't pull at the brakes, can't even brace for impact.

"We'll figure something out," Louis tells him, moving his hands up to the collar of Harry's coat instead, pulling at the thick fabric. He sounds so sure of it, like he always does, like he always somehow manages to do, and Harry just - he doesn't want to hear any of it right now.

It's his own fault Travis' parents had decided to make the move. It's his fault they aren't waiting any longer, his fault they hadn't taken him into consideration. And he knows Travis isn't his boyfriend anymore, and that this shouldn't matter, that it's not like he needs to keep visiting him, but it just _sucks._

It sucks and it hurts, and Travis is going to be all alone up there.

He'll be alone and Harry will be alone, and his flat will be too big, too empty, and he'll exhaust himself trying to work as many hours in a week as he can just to keep going.

And then there's Louis.

There's the only person who's been there for Travis through all of this, from start to finish, his loyalty never wavering. There's Louis, and Louis is going to lose his best friend to the parents he's always been there to help Travis forget.

There's Louis, and he's standing here, trying to comfort _Harry_ of all people, and Harry can't get him out from underneath his skin no matter how hard he fucking tries.

"I promise we can make it work," Louis says, staring back at him, trying to get him to listen. "We're a team, yeah? You and I?"

Harry swallows the thick lump in his throat, feels like his windpipe might be blocked. "A team?"

"Yeah, always," Louis says, letting his wrists hang in the dip between Harry's shoulders and neck. "I canceled my party for you, didn't I?"

Harry frowns, brow furring. He doesn't understand. "For me?" he repeats. "But it's your birthday. Why would you-?"

"Because I couldn't care less about the party, Harry."

"But all your friends were coming," Harry says helplessly. "People you said you hadn't seen in over a year."

"And I spent the better part of the afternoon trying to convince myself to go through with it," Louis says, "when all I really wanted was to meet you at the restaurant and make sure you were okay."

Harry half expects to turn to burn to dust and ash with the amount of heat that flares inside of him.

"Louis," he says, feeling desperate, feeling like he's walking right on the edge of a cliff and he's about to fall off. "Louis, you can't- you can't just say that."

He tries to take a step back, but Louis clasps his fingers together behind his neck, keeps him where he is.

"Why not?" he challenges.

"Because," Harry says, weakly, shaking his head, dropping his gaze to his feet, eyes falling anywhere but Louis' face. "Because, I don't know. Because you just can't."

"Harry."

"What?"

"Harry, look at me," Louis tells him, nudging his chin up with his forearm until their eyes meet and, for a moment, it's blinding, like looking straight into the goddamn sun. "We'll get through this. We'll figure something out. It's what we do, what we always do, yeah?"

Harry gives the smallest nod, everything turning to white noise around him except for the sound of Louis' voice.

"We can work it out," Louis goes on, thumb rubbing at the back of Harry's neck. "We can try talking to your landlord, your boss, ask for a little help from them for the next few months. We can even start looking for smaller flats if that's something you're okay with."

_We,_ he keeps saying. Not _you,_ not _I._ It's _we,_ like they're in this together, like maybe they really are a team, like the weight of the universe isn't resting solely on Harry's shoulders but shared between the both of them. _We_ , like Harry isn't alone.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" Harry exhales, acutely aware of how close they're standing.

"We're going to be okay," Louis promises him, and that's- yeah. That's it. That's Harry's foot slipping off the edge of the rock face. That's the train car falling off the end of the tracks.

That's enough for Harry to loosen his grip on whatever grains of self-preservation he's been holding onto as he stares into Louis' face and feels that overwhelming tug at his heart again.

When his eyes drop to Louis' mouth this time, Louis' eyes follow. His eyes follow, and he takes the smallest step closer, and it feels like they're playing with fire when Harry starts to lean in. He starts to lean in and Louis starts to lean in, and all around them the flames start licking up, lashing out, trying to singe them where they've already been burnt, until it's just the two of them and all Harry has to do is make the move and close that last bit of space-

And then Louis closes the distance for him.

In one deft move, his hand slides up the back of Harry's neck, his eyes flutter shut, and he pulls Harry in for a kiss that knocks down any last feeble bit of defense Harry has left in him.

He almost doesn't know what to do. His heart swells, his breath gets caught in his throat, and Louis must feel all the fucking tension strung out through every single one of his muscles because he softens his lips, moves in closer, and waits for him to catch up.

And Harry wants this. He does. He's spent the past ten hours feeling lost and helpless and more isolated than ever before, and he needs this. He needs someone to remind him that he's not a fucking robot, that he's a human who's allowed to have intense and complicated feelings, but he just- he can't-

He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away.

Louis doesn't move, like he doesn't want to scare him off, like he doesn't want to lose him.

"Sorry," Harry finds himself apologizing.

"Don't be," Louis murmurs, his breath coming out hot just inches from Harry's lips. "This okay?"

"Yeah," Harry promises. "Yeah, I just-"

"Slower?" Louis throws out there.

Harry shakes his head, shuts his eyes.

"No," he says, because that's not what he wants. It's just that on a day when nothing has gone his way, when everything has fallen to pieces around him, he just needs this one thing to work out. He needs this to be on his own terms tonight. "Like this," he says, and brings a hand up to cradle Louis' jaw and lift his mouth towards his.

Louis' hands fall from the back of his head and settle on his waist, and Harry kisses him. He kisses him like he's been trying to keep himself from kissing him for the past few weeks. He kisses him like he's been through hell recently, like they've both been through hell, like after all of that, maybe they deserves just this one good thing. And it's terrifying, it's fucking _terrifying,_ but when Harry backs Louis up against the wall and Louis draws his body close enough that Harry can feel his chest move with every breath he takes, it doesn't feel wrong. It doesn't feel like this is something they maybe should have tried harder to avoid. It feels okay.

So Harry kisses him, and he slips a hand between them to finish unbuttoning his coat, and then his coat is on the ground behind them and Louis' hands are back on his hips and bunching up the soft knit of his jumper as he moves their bodies together. And it's okay. They're okay. This is okay.

He has no idea what he's doing.

"Louis," he exhales into the space between them like a plea for help, one hand on the wall next to Louis' head, the other on the side of Louis' neck. He can feel Louis' pulse fluttering away beneath his thumb, knows his own is doing the same.

Louis' eyes are dark when Harry looks up. Harry brushes their mouths together once, twice, before Louis gives him the smallest nudge away from the wall, fingers spread out across the center of his ribcage

"Come on," he says, and he waits for Harry to take the initiative and kiss him all the way to the bedroom.

They leave the door open and the lights off. There's enough of a glow filtering in from the living room for them to see each other, but not enough for it to feel invasive when Louis sits down near the foot of his bed, arms around Harry's neck, pulling Harry down with him until Harry's forced to knee his way onto the mattress.

There's a part of Harry that still feels a bit frantic as he crawls up to the center of the bed while Louis scoots his arse back over the duvet. He can feel Louis trying to kiss it out of him, trying to slow him down, pushing back against his tongue, stilling his hands when they try to slip under the hem of his t-shirt. And Harry knows he needs to listen, needs to reign everything back in and take his fucking time, but he's struggling. He's still falling from that clifftop, still tumbling off the tracks, still feels like he might crash at any moment.

He settles over Louis as Louis lies back against the mattress, straddling his thighs, one knee on either side, and he just kisses him. He kisses him with the last pieces of himself that he's willing to give away. He kisses him like his life depends on it, because right now, it feels like it just fucking might.

He drops his weight onto the tops of Louis' thighs, opens his mouth as Louis' hands migrate from his hips, across his lower back, one of them teasing at the hem of his jumper again, rucking up the material like he wants more, wants it off.

So Harry helps him out. He pulls away with a wet, sucking sound as their lips part, and sits up long enough to tug his jumper over his head, leaving him in just a thin white t-shirt.

Louis doesn't say anything as he stares up at him through the shadows, breath coming hard, his lips slightly parted. His eyes drop to Harry's covered chest, a little unsure, a little hesitant, like he's waiting for Harry to give him the go-ahead before he decides what to do next.

"Your turn," Harry exhales, feeling bold from his seat on Louis' lap.

"My turn?" Louis asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Yeah." Harry nods. He bites his bottom lip, gives the hem of Louis' t-shirt a little tug. "Off."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Is this coming off too?" Louis asks. The corner of his mouth quirks into a small smile as he pulls at the bottom of Harry's shirt. There's a hint of mischief in his eyes when he looks up again, and it's begging Harry to relax, begging him to come back to himself.

Harry takes a forced, slow breath, peels his t-shirt off and drops it over the edge of the bed.

"Your turn," he says again.

And then Louis' shirt is on the floor next to his, and Harry's lowering himself back over him, hands everywhere, mouth making its way from Louis' neck to his throat, to his chest, and Harry hasn't been with anyone like this in three months, hasn't been with anyone _new_ like this in three _years,_ and it's all a bit much. It's a bit much, but he keeps going anyway, afraid that if he stops, he'll lose his nerve and back down.

He tries not to think about it when he feels Louis' hands on his arse. He slips his tongue past Louis' lips, flushes at the little noise of approval Louis makes, and huffs out a quiet breath of surprise when Louis squeezes at his cheeks over his trousers. He tries not to think about it when he rocks his hips for the first time and feels Louis beneath him. He tries not to think about the way his body reacts, the way his blood grows somehow hotter, the way Louis shifts and pulls him closer, daring him to move like that again.

Harry grinds against him, and it feels good, and honestly, that's all he has the energy to care about anymore. Making himself feel good. Making Louis feel good.

Neither of them says a damn word when Harry slips a hand between them and undoes the button on Louis' jeans.

Louis pulls out of the kiss but doesn't break away, breathing shakily into Harry's mouth as he shimmies out of the tight denim. He kicks his jeans to the side and tries to sit up and roll them over so that he's on top, but Harry shakes his head, kisses him again, tries to distract him as he lowers them back to the duvet by palming over the bulge in Louis' pants.

"Fuck," Louis exhales, right into Harry's mouth.

Heat blossoms out from the center of Harry's belly. He does it again, this time slower, his thumb dragging deliberately along the clothed underside of Louis' cock.

"This alright?" he asks, though he's sure the noise Louis lets out is enough of an indication that he's fine to keep going.

"Yeah," Louis affirms for him anyway, hands near Harry's waistline, fingertips running tentatively over the front pockets of his trousers. He can probably feel the semi Harry's sporting beneath the soft corduroy. Harry takes his hand, slides it over until Louis' palm settles atop the zipper.

"Go for it," he says.

He tries not to think about it as Louis works his trousers open and pushes them down past his hips.

He shuts his eyes, breathes, imagines this isn't all happening in the middle of what feels like a crisis. He hadn't come here today intending for this to transpire- he almost hadn't even come here at all- but here he is, eyes blinking open, slowly climbing off of Louis so he can tug his trousers down his legs and past his feet, and there's a boy he cares far too much about lying in the space beside him, staring up at him like he's not sure how they'd managed to get to this point either.

"Okay?" Louis asks as Harry takes the briefest second to collect himself.

Harry nods, heart racing.

Louis has seen him at his worst, his lowest, his most vulnerable, and yet he's never felt as vulnerable around him as he does now.

Before he can let it crack him open, he ducks his head to catch Louis' lips again, the kiss a little rough, a little desperate. He moans into Louis' mouth as he climbs back over him, the weight of his hips dropping over Louis', and he can feel the hard line of Louis' cock pressing along his own. He shifts his hips, lets the thin cotton of his pants stretch and pull over his length, huffs out a pleased, little breath when Louis swipes the tip of his tongue over the roof of his mouth.

The air goes quiet when he starts shifting further down the bed, the two of them silent the whole way through, no words, just sounds, the wet slide of Harry's lips over Louis' neck, his chest, his abdomen, the rustle of the duvet, the hitch in Louis' breath, the soft snap of elastic as Harry drags the waistband of Louis' pants down past the tops of his thighs.

When he closes his mouth around the head of Louis' cock, Louis' hands find their way into his hair, fingers knotting in the curls, reminding him to slow down.

"Easy there," he manages, nails scraping lightly over Harry's scalp.

Harry doesn't listen. He takes Louis in as far as he can go, throat fluttering around him, eyes falling shut. The burn of it feels good on a night when everything has come to feel like too much. It numbs some of the other pain, gives him something to focus on, makes it hard for him to breathe in a way that's completely of his own doing. He swallows before lifting almost all the way off, spit coating Louis' length and leaving it shining in what little light they have.

He ignores the way his name falls off Louis' tongue, works his mouth over him, deeper this time, down to the base. 

"Harry," Louis tries again, hips straining not to buck up and meet his mouth.

Harry hollows his cheeks, almost makes himself gag as he fucks his throat down over Louis' length. The stretch has his cock thickening between his legs. The weight of Louis on his tongue has him reaching down to palm himself with his free hand. He hasn't been this forward in a long time, hasn't put himself out there like this or gone for what he's wanted without pausing to think, and it's spurring him on. It's making him do things he normally wouldn't do. It's making him feel a bit wild. It's making it harder for him to stop.

When Louis' fingers give his hair another gentle tug, Harry just huffs a short breath through his nose, keeps sucking him off, glances up to meet Louis' heated gaze instead.

He's close.

Harry flattens his tongue, drags it all the way up, licks over the wet head of Louis' cock and groans at the way Louis' muscles tense, the way his abdomen pulls tight. He pulls off with a soft little noise, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"I can keep going?" he asks, voice rough like gravel. He flicks his tongue out again, just over Louis' leaking slit. "I can finish you off?"

"Fuck, Harry," is all Louis manages to say, and Harry wants to make him come, wants to feel him spill down the back of his throat and taste him on his tongue, but Louis reaches for his wrists, gently pulls him up so he's almost in his lap again, and kisses him instead.

Harry kisses him back. He presses at Louis' shoulders until Louis lowers back down to the duvet. He slips his tongue past Louis' lips and lets him taste himself in a kiss that's full of heat and intent. He sets Louis' hands on his waist, pushes Louis' fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs, helps him slide them down before he can think too much about it. His cock bobs free, mostly hard and curving up towards his belly, and when Harry grinds against Louis this time, skin on skin, he feels that heat in his stomach unfurl and spread all the way out to his fingertips, his toes.

He hasn't felt like this in months. He hasn't wanted anything like this in months.

"Lou," he murmurs in between kisses, afraid to pull away, afraid to stop and let the feeling go. "Please."

He rolls his hips against Louis', their cocks sliding alongside each other. Louis' breath comes out hot against his cheek. His hands spread wide over the curve of Harry's arse, fingers digging into the soft skin, kneading at it.

"Louis," Harry tries again, desperately nipping at Louis' jaw. "Please. I want... I want-"

But he can hardly bring himself to say it. He struggles to get the words to form, doesn't know how to ask for what he wants because there's still that part of him that's terrified to do this, that knows he won't be able to take it back even when his body is reacting the way it's reacting.

He snakes a hand between them, takes Louis in his fist, gives him a few short, tight strokes.

"Okay," Louis pants, squeezing Harry's arse until Harry has no choice but to go still against him, just his thumb working over the head of Louis' cock. "Okay," he breathes again.

He smoothes his hands around and up to Harry's chest, pushing gently, teasing over his nipples, causing Harry's cock to twitch when they sit up together.

"Just give me a moment," Louis says, before he scrambles out from under him and crawls his way across the bed to dig through his bedside table drawer for anything they might need.

Harry exhales a rough breath and sits back on his haunches, his heart pounding away in his chest as he watches Louis sift through the books and magazines, the photos, an extra phone charger. His stomach twists, his nerves threatening to get the better of him. And then Louis drops a single condom on the bed without any lube and shuts the drawer.

"Let me just check the bathroom," he says, clambering off the bed and out the open door before Harry can even react.

It's fine. It's not like either of them had been expecting to have sex tonight, not like they could have been prepared for this.

Harry sucks two of his own fingers into his mouth, coats them with his own spit, reaches behind himself and presses both of them past his tight ring of muscle. The stretch hurts. He winces, knows he should have gone one at a time and built up to it, but he doesn't want to wait. He doesn't want to go slow tonight, he doesn't want to have to think about what he's doing.

He fucks himself onto his own two fingers, teeth digging into his bottom lip, cock hanging between his legs. It's a little drier than he'd like without any real lube, but he's okay. He'll be okay.

He hears the bathroom cabinets bump shut, listens to the sound of Louis' bare feet as they hurry over his wood floors, tries to keep breathing when the footsteps sound in the room behind him.

"Woah, hey," Louis' voice comes at once, the bed dipping as he kneels at Harry's side. His fingers close around Harry's wrist. "Couldn't wait two seconds?"

Harry shakes his head, isn't sure he could.

"Didn't want to stop," is all he says.

Louis takes his wrist, gently moves his arm back around, presses an unbearably soft kiss to the back of his hand. "Let me," he says, voice barely more than a whisper. "Let me do this. I've got you."

And Harry, who's been struggling to let go of the reigns tonight, who's been consciously keeping them from slipping through his fingers, who's terrified of handing the ropes over, even to Louis, knows that Louis, of all people, is still the one person he would trust with this tonight, with himself.

It takes a bit of coaxing, a bit of kissing, but Harry eventually settles against the mattress in the end, Louis' pillow beneath his head, his legs spread wide around Louis' waist. As Louis snakes a hand between them, fingers running down Harry's length, massaging his balls, he kisses a slow line across Harry's neck, stopping to suck a tiny bruise just over his throat.

"I have to work tomorrow," Harry reminds him, grabbing Louis' head when he ducks to graze his teeth over the spot.

"Just button your collar," Louis murmurs against his skin, nudging at his hands as his fingers slip past Harry's balls and brush over his hole.

Harry almost stops breathing.

He pulls Louis' head up enough to catch his lips as Louis teases him, his heart jumping in his chest. It's okay, he tells himself again. He's allowed to do this. He's allowed to feel these things. It's okay that this is Louis, that he wants this with Louis.

They don't stop kissing the entire time Louis opens him up. Harry just spreads his thighs, tries to keep his mouth occupied, tries not to let the overwhelming swell of emotion in his lungs burn a hole straight through the duvet as Louis stretches him, one finger, then two, then three.

He goes slow. He works Harry open like he wants him to remember every moment of it - every pause, every crook of his fingers, every hitch in his breath, the stretch, the slide, the smallest bit of friction. It's everything Harry needs, everything Louis has been for him over the past three months, the tether that knows how to pull him back from the edge when he feels like he's about to fly off the face of the earth, the person that knows how to calm Harry, to get him to relax, to remind him that the world keeps turning, the storms pass, the tides change.

It's like Louis knows to take his time with this, even when Harry's been trying his damn hardest not to slow down. He knows when to listen. He knows when not to.

With one last kiss, he pulls his fingers out, wipes them on a discarded item of clothing and reaches for the condom. He fumbles a bit trying to tear it open, Harry watching his chest rise and fall with forced, steady breaths like he's making a conscious effort keep the air moving in and out of his lungs. Harry's own chest feels a bit tight. His lungs feel heavy, his face feels flush. He folds his hands behind his head, watches Louis roll the condom down his length and slick himself up, and then Louis climbs between his legs again, one hand positioning himself at his entrance, the other resting gingerly on his thigh, and Harry's fine. This is fine.

He hasn't had sex since the accident, since Travis. He can feel his pulse skyrocketing, his skin heating with the thought of it, can feel some of the stitches in his heart rip open again, but it's fine. He tries not to think about it.

"This okay?" Louis asks, eyes scanning his face in the dark for any sign that he should back down. Harry doesn't want him to back down. He wants this.

"Yeah," he says quietly, staring up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze when he knows it'll be too much. "Just go slow. It's been a while."

He tries not to think about the last time. He tries not to think about Travis. He tries not to think.

He takes a steadying breath, his legs coming up higher around Louis' waist, the tip of Louis' cock brushing against him. He feels Louis hesitate, feels him try to ground himself, before he starts pushing in, slowly, carefully, with such delicate restraint that Harry doesn't know how to handle it. He lowers one hand, reaches down, finds Louis' fingers where they're pressing into the back of his thigh and squeezes, just concentrates on breathing and relaxing, on the thick pressure of Louis sliding into him, on the hot flutter of something in his belly.

As soon as Louis bottoms out, he stops moving. He holds as still as possible until Harry relaxes enough and his muscles stretch, and Harry wants to apologize for the way his nails are leaving marks in the back of Louis' hand, but he can't find his voice.

"Still good?" Louis asks, forcing Harry's attention up from the space between them to where his face is hidden in the shadows.

All Harry can do is nod and give Louis' fingers another squeeze before Louis starts to pull out again, the pressure easing, the stretch becoming more bearable. Louis ducks his head to kiss him through it, through the slow roll of his hips, through the steady building of a rhythm, through the part where he reaches down and gives Harry's cock a few strokes just to get him fully hard again.

He fucks Harry like every move he makes is meant to unravel one of the threads he's still holding onto.

Harry's breath hitches with each thrust as Louis picks up his pace. He tightens his thighs around Louis' waist, draws him deeper, digs his heels into his arse, and grinds up to meet Louis' hips as he bears down on him. He doesn't let go of Louis' hand, doesn't think he can, but he lets his other arm fall from over his head hook around the back of Louis' neck and pull him even closer. He kisses Louis until he can't kiss him anymore, until they're just breathing into each other's mouths, until Louis buries his face in the dip of his neck and just fucks him like the rest of the world isn't out there, like nothing can touch them while they're in this room.

It's quiet apart from the sound of their breathing, the soft slap of skin meeting skin, the slick sound of Louis sliding in and out of him. Sex isn't normally this quiet for Harry. He's used to light teasing, heated encouragements, used to his own voice, his own groans and gasps and moans, used to hearing them from someone else. But this is different. This feels like something fragile, like there shouldn't be any talking, any banter, like they don't need it for things to feel good. It's like they can read each other's body enough to know how to move, when to speed up, slow down, when to keep going. They don't need words. They can just feel it.

It's Harry who starts to get close first. Louis' hips stutter out of rhythm, his cock slipping out and fucking alongside his own fist where it's wrapped around Harry's length. When he pushes back in, the angle changes, he nudges Harry's prostate, and Harry's breath gets knocked from his lungs.

Louis notices.

He does it again, chasing that same angle, his grip tightening on Harry's cock.

"Shit," Harry swears, biting his bottom lip, nails scraping across Louis' back.

He watches the look of concentration change on Louis' face, watches his eyes darken, his jaw lock, feels him try to match the speed of his thrusts to the way he's jerking him off, and it's almost enough. He's almost there.

Without needing to ask, Harry pushes Louis' hand out of the way and replaces it with his own, fucking his fist and letting the fire build. The white hot coil twists inside of him as Louis clutches at his hips and uses his new leverage to fuck him harder, cock punching in and out of him _just right_.

"Christ," Harry gasps, all he can manage as Louis drives into him properly. He's not going to last. He can't take much more of this.

"Come on," is all Louis has to say, words falling out on the end of a breath. He squeezes Harry's hips, drags them up to meet his next few thrusts, and that's it.

Harry tightens his grip on his cock, all of his muscles pulling impossibly tight, and then he's coming, jerking up into his own hand, cock spilling over onto his fingers and striping both of their stomachs. His body shudders as it tries to contract around Louis, and Louis just fucks him through it until it's too much, until he knows to pull out.

He strips the condom off, his cock red and wet at the tip. Before Harry can struggle to sit up and suck him off or at least lend a helping hand, Louis' fingers close around the base and start desperately tugging at his length.

All it takes is a few quick strokes. He comes with a breathy groan, head dropping as he shoots off, some of it landing in the mess on Harry's stomach, some of it spurting out over the back of his hand.

As soon as he comes down, he crawls out from between Harry's legs and takes a seat in the space next to him, both of them facing the door.

And then it's quiet. It's so fucking quiet.

Harry shuts his eyes, exhausted, drained, and just waits to catch his breath, waits for the rush of adrenaline in his blood to die down, waits for whatever comes next. The duvet compresses beside him, the mattress shifts, and he feels Louis settle with his head on the other half of his pillow. It's okay. It's fine. It's okay.

He wanted this.

This doesn't have to change anything.

Slowly, so slowly, he blinks his eyes open, stares up at the ceiling and takes a quiet breath. It feels like someone's wrapped several thick rubber bands around his lungs. It feels like there's a sack of bricks sitting in his stomach. He turns his head, pretends he doesn't feel the way he feels, pretends it doesn't matter.

"Hi," Louis says, his voice so small, so soft in the aftermath of what they've done. He's lying on his side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the tender worry visible in his eyes, even in the dark.

Harry swallows, tries to find his voice.

"Hi," he says before he rolls onto his side as well, pretending his cock isn't out and going soft against his thigh, pretending there isn't come drying on his abdomen, pretending he's not completely torn between reaching out to touch Louis' skin, his chest, his bare hip, and retracting all of his limbs, dragging the edge of the duvet over himself.

His lies still, keeps his hands close to his own chest, keeps pretending.

After a long while, Louis opens his mouth again. "Can you tell me what you're feeling?" he asks quietly, more of a _yes_ or _no_ question than a demand for answers.

"I don't know," Harry murmurs anyway, unable to decide. There's a lot he has to unpack.

"Are you okay?" Louis tries.

Harry peers up at him, not quite sure of that either. "Are you?"

"I don't know," Louis answers truthfully. His lips are swollen. His hair's sticking out in every direction where it's not flattened against his pillow. There's the smallest hint of a love bite blossoming in the dip between his neck and shoulder. Harry did that. His hands did that, his mouth did that. He did that to Louis.

"I have this feeling like I want to kiss you again," he says, watching the way Louis' face softens, the creases in his forehead smoothing. "And that's... confusing."

"Yeah," Louis nods. "It is."

"You're his best friend," Harry says.

"And you're... you were his boyfriend," Louis replies. "He still loves you."

Harry's stomach does a turn, that ache in his chest coming back. It shouldn't matter anymore. It shouldn't matter how Travis might feel about him because Travis isn't here. He's not awake. He's not the person Harry had thought he'd been. He's not the boy Harry had fallen in love with three years ago. They're broken up and it shouldn't matter.

And yet, here he is, lying naked in bed with Travis' best friend, staring into the face of the boy he's just slept with, the boy whose mouth he wants to kiss again, the boy whose hands he wants to hold and whose warmth he wants to feel around him, and for some fucked up reason, it still matters. It still squeezes the air from his lungs, still makes his insides turn to ice, knowing that just a few miles away, there's another boy who's locked in a coma, who might still love him, who could come back to them at any moment. And Harry's just slept with his best friend.

He can already feel the guilt creeping in, doesn't know how much longer he can convince himself that this is okay, that he's okay. He lets his eyes fall to Louis' lips again, tries not to think about how nice they'd felt against his own.

"We should clean up," Louis murmurs, reaching a tentative hand out from under his pillow to push some of the short curls off of Harry's forehead.

If it's a distraction tactic, Harry lets it be one. He doesn't know if any good could come from kissing Louis again tonight.

"Do you want any cake?" Louis asks.

Some of the chains around Harry's chest loosen. He can talk about cake. "Is that part of cleaning up?"

"No," Louis says with a breathy laugh. "I just know that chocolate helps when you're sad."

"Who said the cake was chocolate?" Harry asks. They both know he's sad.

"If it's not," Louis tells him as he sits up, reaching for the briefs on the duvet behind him, "I'm going to be really disappointed."

"Whoops," Harry mutters, and when he sees the way Louis' face falls, he somehow manages what feels like his first quiet laugh of the day. It's been a long fucking day.

"Harry."

But Harry just shakes his head, pushes himself into a seated position, searches for his own briefs as well. "I'm joking," he promises. "Chill out. It's chocolate."

"Good," Louis says, getting up and slipping his pants back on. "We can eat a bit and have a shower. Everything else can wait."

But Harry, who's spent the past hour using sex as a distraction from the shit storm the day has been, from the fact that Travis' parents are about to remove him from his life, from the fact that he's got an empty bank account and he's stuck working in a restaurant, the fact that he won't be going home for Christmas, knows that sometimes, waiting isn't an option. It doesn't matter how hard he tries to convince himself it's okay, doesn't matter how many times he tells himself that everything is fine. If it's not okay and he's just pretending, if he's holding whatever he's feeling back and trying to lock it up in a cage, it'll all come out eventually.

When he falls asleep an hour later wearing one of Louis' oversized hoodies, a few bites of cake in his belly, skin scrubbed raw, hair wet and drying on the pillow, he knows he's not going to feel this way in the morning. He knows the arm around his waist will only be comforting for so long. He knows he'll want to kiss Louis again. And he knows it's going to tear him up trying to figure out if he's allowed to, if he should.

\---

Louis is gone in the morning.

The sun is up, the room is cool and quiet, Harry's eyelids are heavy, his bones even heavier, and the bed is empty.

They'd discussed it in the shower- how Louis had bought a ticket for an early train home, how he'd leave the spare key on the kitchen table, how he wouldn't bother waking Harry up, how he'd try to call later that night so Harry wouldn't have to spend Christmas Eve alone. It's not like this is a surprise. It's just that Harry had kind of hoped he'd be woken up anyway just to say happy birthday, to say goodbye, make sure they were still okay.

There's one of those fancy, perpetually-hot coffee thermoses sitting on the bedside table with a note pinned beneath it. Harry stares at it, lets his heart rate slow down, ignores the way his back aches when he rolls over, the way he can still feel the ghost of Louis' hands all over his body, hours after they've last touched him.

He checks the time, shuts his eyes, digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, breathes.

He still has to talk to his mum.

He has to be at the restaurant in a few hours.

He's not going to be home for Christmas.

Eventually, he reaches over and tugs the piece of paper out from under the thermos, the heavy metal clunking against the bedside table. The note is short, scrawled across the small square in blue ink. He squints, reads it with his eyes only half open.

_H - Hope the coffee's still hot. I left a slice of cake in the fridge if you wanted more. I'll see you in a week. x L_

One week. He's been left alone for another week, a week he'll use to pick apart the thoughts in his head, to dissect the feelings in his chest, to figure out where he's supposed to go from here before he has to face Louis again. He doesn't even know where to start. He feels like he should have gone numb to everything by now with just how tired he is, how emotionally exhausting everything has been lately, but he just hasn't. He's running on his last drops of fuel but his feelings are all still there. He's filled to the brim and he's trying his best to carry the weight of everything without overflowing.

Last night should have taken care of that. The sex should have fucked some of those feelings right out of him, helped him release some of whatever he's been holding onto, but it only seems to be worse now. All the sex did was unlock another set of layers, the set Harry's been trying so hard to ignore.

He definitely has some feelings for Louis. He can't deny that anymore. As hard as he'd fought to keep them at bay, they're definitely there, somewhere in the depths of his heart, waiting to spread like wildfire. He just doesn't know how deep they go or how permanent they are. He doesn't know how this is supposed to work with whatever's leftover in his heart from Travis, how his feelings are supposed to share that space, doesn't know how Louis' own feelings fit into this either.

Because Louis had been quiet after they'd finished, too.

He'd gone for his own distractions. He'd eaten the cake and avoided talking about it. He'd stepped into the shower with Harry and stood close, so close, but he hadn't even made a move to touch Harry or try to kiss him again, hadn't even looked at him below the chest.

He'd pulled Harry against him when they'd settled back into bed, and that had been it.

Each of them has their own reason for holding back, for not fully indulging even after they've fully indulged, but it's not because they don't want it. It's not because they don't want each other.

There's just that gigantic neon sign in the back of both of their heads asking, " _What About Travis?"_

Harry hasn't been able to unplug it yet. He hasn't even found a sheet to throw over it.

He grabs his phone, types up a message to his mum that he's ended up working both Christmas and Christmas Eve and won't be there by this afternoon like he'd told her he would. He presses send before he can think too hard about it, feel too shitty about it. He knows it's shitty. He knows how heartbroken she'll be. He knows he hasn't seen her since before the accident.

He just really can't afford to right now.

Without letting himself dwell on it, he shoves his phone in the front pocket of Louis' hoodie, collects the rest of his clothes from where they're scattered across the room, grabs the thermos of coffee, and goes home.

\---

His mum tries to call him almost as soon as he walks through his own door, key still in hand, wearing the clothes from the night before, feeling a bit like a small disaster entering the flat that he and Travis had shared together with the feeling of Louis' mouth still tingling on his lips. His eyes fall to Travis' shoes, still tucked to the side in the entrance, Travis' hoodie still hanging off one of the coat hooks. Harry leaves his phone unanswered, collects Travis' belongings, puts them away in the back of their bedroom closet where he should have left them three months ago.

His fingers tremble as they close around the knob to pull the closet door shut.

He doesn't stop to think about it. He feels too sick to think about it.

Even if Travis does wake up, Harry's not sure he'd want to come home anyway. But it shouldn't matter, right? They're broken up. Harry's not in love with him anymore. It shouldn't matter that he's slept with someone else, regardless of whom that someone else might be. So why does he feel like he's done something wrong? Why does it feel like he's cheated? Why does his chest hurt the way it does this morning, like there's a tear in his heart, like it's growing wider by the hour, the fine trickle of guilt spilling from it threatening to become a flood?

He doesn't even consider visiting Travis today, knows it will just twist the knife deeper between his ribs, knows nothing good would come from it. Travis' parents are still in London. If they care as much about him as they claim they do, they can spend the holidays at his bedside. They don't need Harry today. Travis doesn't need Harry today.

He doesn't listen to the voicemail his mum leaves. He doesn't pick up when his sister tries ringing him next. He just puts on some music to drown out his thoughts, empties one of the cardboard boxes he's been using for storage beneath his bed, and starts going around his flat, collecting anything that belongs solely to Travis so that he doesn't have to look at it and feel the sharp sting in his stomach anymore.

He leaves for work two hours later with a note in his phone to bring home more boxes. The Lowells can have them, or Louis, or they can stay in the flat, tucked back under the bed where Harry can forget that they exist. It doesn't matter. None of this really matters if Travis never wakes up.

\---

The restaurant is half as crowded that evening as it usually is, half the tables full, less than half the staff on hand, but it's not unexpected. Harry still gets paid extra because of the holiday, still earns more in tips, is still able to convince himself at the end of the night that staying in London and working the holidays away had been the correct choice for his current situation.

His boss sends him home with a rather large bottle of wine as a thank you for working Christmas Eve and the promise to keep him and his Travis in her thoughts over the next few days. Harry doesn't bother correcting her. Travis isn't his, won't be his again.

It's not the worst shift he's had to work in that restaurant, but he'd still rather be home, wrapped up in blankets on his mother's couch, opening gifts and drinking spiked hot chocolate, letting all of the overbearing, festive cheer disguise just how broken and torn apart he feels beneath it all.

Because he feels like pretty awful when he gets off the tube and realizes he'll be going home to an empty flat again.

He thinks about calling Louis.

He doesn't.

He thinks about going to the hospital after all.

He obviously doesn't.

He thinks about calling his mum back and apologizing, explaining to her what's going on, why he isn't there, but the thought of having to hear the disappointment in her voice is almost too much for him to handle. If he calls her, he'll surely have a breakdown on the spot and he's not certain he'd be able to recover from it alone in his bedroom.

So he doesn't call her either.

He carries his extra boxes and his bottle of wine up to his flat, unlocks the door, doesn't even notice how odd it is that the lights are all on and that it smells like someone's been cooking, until his mother and sister come walking out of his kitchen.

Harry just stares at them, frozen in the entryway, lost for words.

"Hi," his mum says, her voice timid, full of worry.

Harry grips his boxes tighter, feels like he's swallowed a beetle. "What- what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be-?"

"What do you think we're doing here?" Gemma interrupts him.

Harry shakes his head. It's not making sense. Nothing is making sense.

"It's Christmas Eve," he says weakly, the swelling of his heart already starting to put pressure on his lungs. "What about the rest of the family? What about your plans?"

"What about making sure my son's okay?" his mum says before she steps close enough to pry the boxes from his hands and set them at their feet.

Harry doesn't have to think twice about it. He shuffles forward and lets his mother's arms pull him into a hug that he hadn't realized he's needed ever since he'd stepped out from that broken car in the middle of the intersection, his boyfriend left bleeding in the driver's seat behind him.

And then he cries.

The dam breaks, the walls come down, his well of emotions finally bubbles over, and he doesn't know how to stop it. She wraps her arms around him, pulls him closer, her face tucking into his shoulder, and it's like everything that's happened since he and Travis left for the airport on that chilly October morning just boils up inside of him and starts pouring out.

A choked sob rips itself from his chest before he can even think to swallow it down. His shoulders hunch and he inhales a rattling, broken breath right there in the middle of his entryway, and he just cries. He cries because he's tired, because he's sad, because he's lost his boyfriend, because his mum's here, because his sister's here, because he's gone and slept with the one person he shouldn't have, because he's feeling a thousand different things for a thousand different reasons, and it's too much. It's all so fucking much.

He cries, and he doesn't stop crying, like someone's trying to wring everything out of him.

"You're alright," his mum murmurs in his ear as she maneuvers them to the couch. "You're alright, sweetheart. I'm here. Gemma's here. It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm sorry," is all Harry manages to choke out between shallow breaths, because she has to know. He's sorry for not calling her that morning, for not answering his phone when she'd called back, for worrying her so much that she must have gotten straight into her car and driven down here on a split second decision.

"It's okay," his mum keeps telling him.

She doesn't ask what this is about, why he's in such a state, why he'd felt like he couldn't come home, doesn't push him to talk just yet. Instead, she pulls him against her side, his face buried in her shoulder, his feet pulled up on the couch cushions, and she lets him cry it out, lets him sob into her jumper for as long as it takes, his breath coming short, his nose running, his fingers clinging to her sleeve, white at the knuckles.

He doesn't even know why he cries as hard as he does. Maybe his mum just has that affect on him. Maybe it's because he's been keeping everything locked inside for so long, and she's the one person he knows won't be afraid to hold him through it all.

It's like he's sixteen years old again, coming home past curfew from that underage party, knocking on his mum's bedroom door and bursting into absolute tears at the sight of her because he'd walked in on his first ever boyfriend snogging someone else. It's all rather shit and everything hurts, and he can't- fuck, he can't stop crying.

"Harry," his mum says, rubbing at his shoulder. "I need you to breathe for me."

"I- I can't-" he says, swallowing hard around a mouthful of air. Maybe he's having a panic attack. Maybe he really is broken.

"You're starting to scare me, love," she murmurs as Gemma hands them a box of kleenex and perches on the edge of the armchair across the room. "Is this just about Trav? Is he okay? Did something happen?"

"Or are you just really sad to see us?" Gemma asks, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Harry rolls his wet eyes at her, lets his mum wipe his face with a tissue.

"It's- it's everything," he says miserably, over a shuddering breath. "It's Travis, and it's my job. It's his parents. It's the money. It's- it's Louis. And it's me just- just missing you. It's all fucked up, mum. I don't - I don't know what to do."

"What do you mean?" his mother asks. "What's happened?"

"Who's Louis?" Gemma throws out there.

"He's Travis' friend," his mum answers for him, like it's really that simple. "The one who was visiting after the accident. What do you mean it's all screwed up, Harry? Is Travis alright?"

She already knows most of it. She knows about the pneumonia, the surgery, the break-up. She knows Travis' parents are crap. She knows Harry's been kind of tight on money lately. She doesn't know about the new plan, doesn't know how that's going to affect Harry's bank account, doesn't know the photoshoot fell through.

She doesn't know about Louis.

"His parents are transferring him to Doncaster," Harry tells her, sniffling hard. He shouldn't care. He knows he shouldn't care, but that's not how feelings work. That's not what his heart is telling him. "His parents want to move him when the pneumonia breaks - _if_ the pneumonia breaks- and I can't afford to take days off. I can't afford to visit him."

"And what about Louis?" his mum asks. "What's he got to do with any of this?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asks, voice scratching at his throat.

"You said, 'it's Louis,'" she reminds him. "You said, 'it's Travis' parents, it's the money, and it's Louis.'"

"Oh," Harry acknowledges.

"Are you still friendly with him?" she checks. "Or did something change?"

"Mum," Harry grumbles. He really doesn't want to get into it.

"You're still talking to him, right?" she asks, thumb rubbing at his arm. "You didn't scare him off, did you?"

"No, mum," Harry sighs, face heating up. "We're fine. Everything is fine with him."

"Really?" she presses. "Because if he's done something to hurt you after you let him stay with you for a _month_ , I swear I'll-"

"Mum, I slept with him," Harry cuts her off, words blunt.

He feels his mother go tense where she's holding him. He hears Gemma make a choked noise of surprise in the corner of the room. He hadn't meant to tell them like that, hadn't really meant to tell anyone at all tonight. There's just a lot to say about it and a lot that he still needs to process, and it's not something he'd planned on doing outside of his own head. If the floor were to just open up and swallow him whole right now, he's not sure he would mind.

"Ah," is all his mum says at first, slowly, carefully, like it's all starting to make sense, the pieces coming together.

"It was last night," Harry mumbles, unable to pick his head off her shoulder and look her in the eyes. "Neither of us meant for it to happen. It just did."

"I see." His mum nods. "That explains a lot."

"Can we not talk about it tonight?" Harry asks, miserable.

His mum seems to debate it for a second, Harry lifting his head just enough to see her mouth thin out into a fine line, her jaw already locked tight like she's holding back several things she might want to say.

"Fine," she decides after a long, silent moment. "But only because it's Christmas Eve. We can put on a film and split that bottle of wine you walked in the door with, because I _know_ you weren't planning on drinking that all on your own tonight."

Harry sniffles, gives a weak shrug. "I hadn't been planning on it," he says. "At least not until my boss put it in my hands an hour ago."

"At least he's honest," Gemma comments, already rising from her seat to go pour three glasses.

His mum looks anything but amused.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles, rubbing at his nose. "Everything's been a bit shit."

"So _shit_ you couldn't come home for two days?" His mum raises an eyebrow.

"I promise you I would have if I could have," Harry says. He squeezes at her fingers where they're resting on his arm and fixes her a pained look, imploring her not to pry anymore just yet, not to try to fix this, solve this, not to get involved, not tonight, and his mum sighs, her shoulders dropping as she nods, tight lips smoothing into a small, resigned frown.

"Okay," she says quietly, knowing he wouldn't lie to her. "I'm giving you tonight off, but tomorrow we're talking."

"Mum..."

"I haven't seen you since August," she reminds him. "I didn't drive all the way down here just to sit on your couch in silence while you have a good cry. I'm your mother, and we're going to talk about this."

She doesn't even give Harry a chance to argue. She just kisses the top of his head as if that's supposed to keep him quiet, her free hand reaching for the television remote. Harry sighs, rubbing at his face with his sleeve. He should probably change out of his work clothes, into something more comfortable.

"I'm glad you're here," he mumbles quietly into his mother's shoulder as he hears Gemma pop the cork from the bottle of wine.

As stubborn as he is, and as much as it might hurt to have to put words to everything he might be feeling, he'd still rather go through it all with his mum at his side than on his own, probably drunk and definitely sad, in this cold and empty flat.

\---

Louis doesn't call him that night, but Harry sends him a message in the morning just to say that his mum and sister are there so he doesn't have to worry. That doesn't stop Louis from trying to call him anyway while they're all sat around the tiny kitchen table eating the greatest, most substantial breakfast Harry has seen in a long time. His phone goes off, and because it could be the hospital, Harry pulls it from his pocket to check who's calling, only to have two extra sets of eyes track the movement as well.

He doesn't answer. He'll call back later.

That doesn't stop his mum and Gemma from staring at him knowingly when he turns his attention back to them.

"That was Louis?" Gemma asks, not even trying to be subtle. "You didn't want to pick up?"

"We're eating breakfast." Harry shrugs. "It's Christmas morning."

"Have you spoken to him since...?"

Harry reaches for another slice of toast. "Since when?"

"Since, you know," Gemma answers, passing him the strawberry jam. "Since you slept with him."

"No," Harry says quietly. "He left early yesterday. We haven't had a chance to talk."

"Are you going to call him back?"

"I don't know," Harry says. "Probably. Why does it matter?"

He looks to his mum for help, for some change in subject, for her to tell Gemma to give him a break, but she seems genuinely more interested in his answers than in trying to save him from the interrogation.

"I'm just curious," Gemma says, holding her coffee mug between both hands, her painted nails clicking against the ceramic. "I barely even knew this person existed until last night. I mean, I knew you had one of Travis' mates staying with you for a few weeks, but I didn't know you were keeping in contact with him. I didn't know you two had a thing going on."

"We don't have a thing going on," Harry frowns, shaking his head.

"So it didn't mean anything?" Gemma tries. "It was just a hookup?"

"No." Harry furrows his brow. "I don't know."

"They haven't talked about it yet," his mum reiterates. "I'm sure it's complicated on both ends."

"Yeah," Gemma huffs. "He's Travis' best mate and Harry's his ex."

Harry rolls his eyes, thinks about giving her a kick under the table but doesn't want to turn their Christmas breakfast into a full-on brawl. "Thanks, Gem," he says instead. "I'd almost forgotten."

He tears off a corner of his toast with his teeth, feels his mum's hand land on his knee to try and keep him calm.

"We're just worried about you, is all," she says, giving him sympathy eyes. "You're already going through so much, and last night was - well, it's not easy being a mum and having to hold your baby while he cries like that. I think we just want you to be careful."

Harry swallows, reaches for his coffee to take a small sip. "I know," he says. "I know it's complicated, and I know you're both just... invested in my well-being-"

"You're my brother," Gemma reminds him, nudging his socked feet. "It comes with the territory."

"I know," Harry says again, "and I appreciate it. But Louis is... I don't know what he is. I don't know what we're doing. I don't have any answers."

"Do you like him?" his mum asks.

Harry stares at whatever's left in his mug, his heart doing that clenching thing it does when he thinks about Louis in ways that aren't complicated, that don't involve sex, that don't involve ruining relationships with people he cares about, that don't involve Travis.

He knows the answer to this one. It might be the only thing he knows at this point.

"Yeah," he says, keeping his voice small. "I kind of do."

\---

They don't talk about Louis for the rest of Christmas. They don't talk about Travis or Harry's current situation. They don't talk about money, about photography, or even really about the restaurant.

Harry leaves for work in the early afternoon and comes home in the late evening to a roast put together by his mum and sister in the hours he'd been away. They eat on the floor between his coffee table and couch with another Christmas film playing on the television and some candles lit around the room to make it feel warmer than it actually is. It's not exactly the type of Christmas that Harry's used to. There aren't any decorations, no tree, no cousins or aunts and uncles to catch up with, no little nieces or nephews running about, no gifts exchanged. It's quiet, and it's subdued, and maybe it doesn't even feel much like Christmas, but it's better than what Harry's had imagined he'd be doing when he'd agreed to work over the holidays.

He helps wash the dishes with Gemma while his mum raids his closet for his Scrabble set, tries not to imagine the look on her face when she inevitably finds the box full of Travis' things thrown in the back.

They spend the night playing board games and working their way through another bottle of wine. It's nice being able to take his mind off of everything, nice to laugh a little, nice to feel like he's going to be okay for a bit even when he's not yet convinced that he actually is. And it's nice, at the end of the night, to not have anyone give him a hard time, pressure him, or throw judgmental looks his way when his phone goes off again and he decides not to pick up.

"I'll call him tomorrow," he promises his mum, even though she doesn't say anything about it.

She sets their empty glasses in the sink and wipes the crumbs from the homemade Christmas cookies she'd brought from home into the bin.

"Call him when you're ready," she says, looping an arm around his waist and walking him out of the kitchen. "If he cares about you the way I think you care about him, he'll understand."

Harry knows she's right. He shouldn't have anything to worry about if Louis is the person he thinks he is. He just can't help feeling like everything's going to be different between them once he picks up the phone, and maybe that's a change he's not quite ready to face.

\---

Travis' doctor calls the following afternoon to tell Harry there's been some improvements. Travis' fever has gone down, his lungs are clearing, and, against many odds, he's fighting off the pneumonia.

"That's good news," his mum has to remind him as they walk back from the park where they've spent the last hour discussing Harry's finances amongst the bare trees, scarves wrapped tight around their necks, arms linked, just the two of them.

"I know it's good news," Harry sighs, because he'd be an awful person if he didn't acknowledge that. "It just means his parents are going to take him away sooner."

"Can I ask you something?" his mum tries. "I don't mean to sound insensitive - I'm just genuinely curious. Why do you need Travis to stay here in London?"

Harry grimaces. This isn't the question he'd wanted to hear.

"I don't know," he grumbles a bit, searching for an answer that won't make him sound ridiculous. "His friends are all down here. Anyone who cares about him is down here."

"He's unconscious," his mum says. It's not harsh, it's just a fact. "He doesn't know if the people visiting him are complete strangers, best friends, or ex-boyfriends. That doesn't change, whether he's in London or Doncaster."

"We can look out for him here, though," Harry tries to argue. "I can check on him, Louis works in that hospital. He can make sure Travis is cared for."

"But you can't make medical decisions for him."

Harry shakes his head. He knows this. He knows he doesn't have a voice in anything here, and yet, it's still worth being around. "I can sit by his side," he says. "I can hold his hand. I can give him a haircut. I can see for myself that he's alive and breathing, mum. I don't need medical permission to do any of that."

"I know," his mum allows. "But you're not his boyfriend anymore. Usually when you break up with someone, it's over. You don't normally go out of your way to see each other. What happens to the other person stops being your business."

"This is different," Harry tells her.

"How so?"

"He's in a coma, obviously."

"And if he wasn't in a coma?" his mum asks, keeping at his side as they cross the street, just a few blocks away from Harry's flat. "He still did things you don't agree with. He still hurt you quite a bit, didn't he?"

"Which is why I broke up with him," Harry points out. He doesn't understand where she's trying to go with this. "Why can't I still care about his well-being? Am I not allowed to hate the idea of him being all alone in Doncaster just because he's not my boyfriend anymore? We were together for three years, mum. I'm not heartless."

His mother lets out a quiet sigh, pulling him closer by the crook of his elbow. "I know you're not," she says gently. "You have the biggest heart in the world, sweetheart. That's what concerns me."

"You're concerned that I care too much?" Harry frowns.

"I'm concerned that you still have feelings for him," his mum admits. "Maybe you're not in love with him anymore or you don't love him the way you did two, three months ago, but I'm worried there's still something there. It's what's making everything else you're going through even more complicated than it needs to be."

"You mean everything with Louis," Harry guesses as much.

His mum shakes her head. "Not just Louis. You're stressed about hospital visits, about Travis' health, about paying your rent, the transfer, even making it home for Christmas, Harry."

"So I should just stop feeling anything for Travis?" Harry says. "I should stop caring?"

It would solve nearly all of his problems, take the pressure off his shoulders, remove some of his anxiety, leave him free to move on without any guilt, but he's pretty sure it's an impossible task. He can't cut that piece of his heart out and pray that he never feels a thing for Travis Lowell again.

"Of course not," his mum tells him softly, squeezing at his arm. "I just want you to remember to put your own health and happiness first every once in a while. Is that too much to ask?"

Harry takes a slow breath, stares down at their feet as they amble along the pavement. "Sometimes it feels like it is," he says with a small shrug.

He can feel his mother's eyes on the side of his face as their pace slows even more.

"How do we change that?" she asks, finally pulling him to a stop. "How do we help you remember yourself?"

She moves to stand in front of him, unlinking their arms and taking both of his hands instead, thumbs rubbing over the backs of them. Harry blinks his eyes, tries to keep the stinging at bay. He can't even look at her without wanting to cry again.

"I don't know," he says weakly. He's been so wrapped up in everything else, maybe he really has forgotten to look out for himself. "I don't know, mum, I-"

"I don't need to move down here for a few weeks and look after you, do I?"

"No, mum."

"I can cook you real meals," she offers anyway, "make sure you're eating properly, getting enough rest. I can keep you company."

"You don't need to," Harry says, shaking his head at the ground. "Besides, I think Louis' already trying to do all of that anyway."

His mother's hold on him softens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Harry nods. He swallows hard. "He's... he's really good, mum."

He meets her eyes, sees the way hers are watching him, reading his face, trying to figure out what he's feeling, and they're quiet for a minute. It's just the sound of the cars passing on the street beside them, Harry's hands in his mother's, his heart stuck in his throat.

"You know... it's okay to like him," his mum tells him gently, like she's trying not to spook him. "I know it might be scary to feel anything for anyone after Travis, and maybe it feels like it's too soon and you aren't ready, Harry, but it's okay if you are. And it's okay if it's with Louis."

"You say that," Harry says, "but all I keep thinking is, 'What kind of arsehole sleeps with their ex's best friend?'"

"Oh, love," his mum sighs, her eyes going so sad, Harry almost apologizes for saying it. "Don't do that to yourself. Sometimes things like this just happen, and it isn't your fault, and it's not Louis' fault - it's just how life goes. You can't help who you fall for."

"I haven't fallen for him, mum," Harry says. "I've only stumbled a little."

"That makes it sound like this was just a misstep," she says. "You don't have to treat it like one. You're allowed to fall, baby."

And Harry feels like he should already know this, feels like he's told himself a thousand times over since Louis' mouth first landed on his that it's okay, that they're not doing anything wrong, that he's allowed to want the things he wants, but it's still nice to hear the words spoken out of someone else's mouth.

"Travis is getting better," his mum says, letting go of his hands to hold him by his arms. "Maybe it doesn't have to be a bad thing if he gets transferred. Maybe it'll give you the space you need heal."

"Maybe," Harry says quietly. "But I still don't like it."

"You don't have to like it," his mum says with a soft, sad, little smile. "You just can't let it break you, okay?"

It sounds so easy, said to him like that.

"I'll try," he says.

"That's all I'm asking." His mum nods as she pulls him into another hug in the middle of the pavement, her hands rubbing across his spine in soothing circles, siphoning some of the tension from him. "It might hurt for a while, but you have to try."

"Maybe you _should_ stay for a few weeks," Harry mumbles into her shoulder, face squished.

"Don't joke," his mum gives a short laugh. "You know I would in a heartbeat."

"I know," Harry says.

He does, and he's forever grateful for it.

\---

His mother and Gemma make the long drive home two days later, once they're convinced that Harry isn't going to have another panic attack or nervous breakdown in the very near future, and only after they've smothered him with enough love, hugs, and kisses to last another four or five months. They leave him with a fully stocked pantry and refrigerator, a deeply dusted and vacuumed flat, and an envelope full of cash labeled "For Emergencies," which Harry hopes he never has to use. He doesn't argue about any of it. He'd feel too ungrateful if he were to put up a fight, refuse the money, refuse the help, refuse the hugs.

They're just looking out for him. They're not forcing him to use the cash. They're just making sure he knows it's there, that _they're_ there if he ever needs anything.

It hurts to say goodbye, but the emptiness of his flat after he closes the door behind them isn't as suffocating as it had been when he'd come home from Louis' a few days ago. Travis is getting better, his lungs are clearing, he'll hopefully come off the ventilator soon, and the Lowells will take care of the rest. All that really matters is that the pneumonia goes away. At least, that's what Harry keeps trying to tell himself.

He still doesn't call Louis back.

He wants to, but he doesn't know what he would even say. Is he supposed to pretend nothing has changed and just tell Louis about his Christmas, ask him about his own holiday, his birthday, talk about nonsense for an hour while they both ignore the daunting shadow looming in the back of the conversation, waiting to be brought up? Or is that the only thing they're supposed to talk about- the fact that they slept with each other? Because Harry isn't sure he can do either of those things just yet, not over the phone.

All he knows about any of this, is that he's not ready to lose Travis, but he's not ready to lose Louis either. And while one of those things feels like it might be inevitable, the other doesn't have to be. He likes Louis. He likes having Louis for company, likes being his friend, likes- he likes kissing him, likes it quite a bit, and if that means there's room for this thing with him to grow and blossom into something else, then that's great. And if it doesn't go that way, and they decide to brush it off, try to lock whatever feelings there might be in a cage and hope they fade away, then maybe that's okay, too. But if Louis doesn't want any of that, if he wants to put some more distance between them, go the same route as Travis and pull himself from Harry's life, then Harry doesn't know what he'll do.

He tries not to dwell on it. He knows how he feels. He thinks, maybe, he'd like to explore things with Louis a bit more and see where it all goes. It's still more than a little nauseating to imagine what might happen if Travis ever wakes up and finds out about everything, but it's been three months. As far as Harry's concerned, he isn't going to wake up anyway.

So all Harry does for the moment is type out a short apology to Louis, his thumbs moving slow and deliberate over the keys on his phone while he stands in front of his and Travis' chest of drawers, two empty boxes at his feet.

_Sorry I haven't had time to call. I'll see you New Year's Eve?_

He presses send before he can overthink it. He doesn't need to explain himself, doesn't need to give Louis anything more than that.

His phone lights up just a moment later.

_No worries. You'll be at Nialls?_

All Harry sends back is a simple, _yeah,_ knowing he'll have time to talk to Louis at the party or just get spectacularly drunk if it all goes south, before he drops his phone facedown on his bed, and starts going through Travis' drawers one by one, pulling out all of his clothes and setting them neatly in the boxes. His mum had been right. He needs space and time to heal, space that he hasn't allowed himself to have just yet, not even after he'd decided to end things. Sure, he'd taken those few weeks when Louis had first left, but he needs more. He'll never be able to move past the feelings in his heart if he keeps allowing all of the pieces that Travis had left behind remain tucked away in every corner of his life.

He lifts a stack of Travis' t-shirts from the open drawer and places them at the bottom of the box. Already, he feels a little lighter.

\---

By the time New Year's Eve comes, Harry manages to collect seven rather decent sized boxes full of Travis' things, from his clothes and shoes, to his books, his CDs, his favorite mugs, the checkbook, the little roll of undeveloped film he'd left in his drawer years ago. Harry stacks them all against the wall of his living room, taped shut and labeled as best as he could manage. He hasn't decided what he wants to do with them yet. Maybe they'll just sit there for another three months before he works up the nerve to return them to Travis' parents. Maybe Louis will save him the trouble and take them off his hands. Maybe the Lowells will come looking for them on their own.

Harry places the final box atop the stack, tries not to let it bother him how his flat looks half empty when he turns back around, only half of the book case occupied, only half of the art hanging on the walls, half his heart boxed up, wondering if Travis might come back to unpack it one day.

It doesn't mean he still loves Travis. All of these feelings, this guilt, not wanting to see Travis go and get shipped off in the back of some sort of hospital transport vehicle, missing the way things had been before they'd turned complicated, missing _Travis_ \- they don't equate to love. They're just feelings, and Harry has them, and it's okay to have them, and it's okay to have an entirely different set of feelings for Louis.

He tries to remember all of this as he showers after a long evening spent at the restaurant and an extra hour worth of packing up the rest of Travis' things. He tries to repeat it in his head while he gets dressed, stomach doing all sorts of flips at the thought of seeing Louis again. He keeps thinking it, keeps reminding himself of it as he steps on and off the tube, as he climbs the stairs to Niall's flat, as he makes his way inside and finds himself in the heart of an already crowded party.

It's all going to be okay.

Harry just needs a drink. Or two. Or seven.

"Harry!" someone calls his name over the music.

He looks up just in time to see Niall come barreling towards him before their bodies collide in a hug that punches the wind from his lungs.

"Jesus, Niall," Harry huffs, eyes searching over Niall's shoulder for any sign of Louis. "What was that for?"

"Missed you, is all," Niall tells him, the smell of alcohol on his breath. He's not fully drunk yet, but he seems well on his way to getting there.

Harry hasn't seen him since before Christmas. With the way Niall squeezes him tight before pulling back to hold him at arm's length, he's not sure if the searching look in his eyes should worry him or not.

"Alright?" he asks Niall, hesitant.

"Yeah," Niall answers. "Just making sure you're still with us."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes, arsehole," Niall says as someone bumps into him from behind and sends both of them stumbling back a little. "I haven't seen you in over a week. I haven't heard a word from you, not even a 'Happy Christmas,' not even when I asked if you were stopping by tonight. I had to corner Louis when he walked in to find out if you were alright."

"You spoke to Louis?" Harry asks, his heart skipping a quick beat. He tries to scan the room once more, but Niall pinches his bicep, draws his attention back.

"Incredible," he sighs, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Nothing," Niall mutters. "Nothing. You're just... I don't know. Anyway. He told me what happened."

Harry's stomach drops.

"He... told you what happened?"

"With Travis' parents, yeah," Niall continues, much to Harry's relief. "He told me how you decided to work through the holidays, said your mum and Gemma came down to keep you company. He seemed a little distracted though. Have you been avoiding him as well?"

"First of all," Harry says, "I'm not avoiding you. I'm not avoiding anyone. Second of all, I've just been busy with my family and the holidays and work. I haven't really looked at my phone for anyone this week."

"Are you going to be one of those people that gives up technology for the new year?" Niall wrinkles his nose.

"No," Harry says. "That's not what this was."

"Just needed a break?" Niall tries.

Harry nods. "I just needed a break."

"And now you're okay?"

"Now I'm... I don't know." Harry shrugs, Niall's hands slipping off his arms. "I'm trying. I'm here tonight, aren't I?"

"You're a bit late," Niall notes. "But you _are_ here. How do I know it's not just for the free booze?"

"It's not," Harry promises, "although I wouldn't mind a shot or two of something strong to catch up a little."

He wouldn't mind having a bit of liquid courage in him before he decides to go seeking Louis out, or rather, before Louis seeks _him_ out.

"How's vodka sound?" Niall asks. "Some of us mixed together a ton of shots earlier. Or you can drink it straight if you're feeling bold."

The last time Harry had been feeling bold, he'd ended up in bed with Louis. He's not feeling quite as bold tonight.

"I'll try whatever you made," he says.

"Good." Niall nods. "They're in the kitchen."

Harry frowns, his eyes darting past the breakfast bar to where people have joined around the selection of drinks. Louis could be in there. "You're not coming with me?"

"I have a party to host," Niall tells him, giving him a little nudge in the right direction. "Go. Mingle. Find Louis, Liam, Abby, Pete, I don't care. Just don't stand alone in the corner and drink yourself silly."

"Yes, sir," Harry mutters before Niall rolls his eyes, literally grabs him by the shoulders to spin him around and send him marching towards the kitchen.

One quick glance around tells Harry that Louis isn't in there either. He squeezes through the number of people he doesn't recognize, steals two red-colored shots from where they're lined across the worktop in neat, even rows, and downs them in quick succession without thinking twice. Then he pours himself a real drink, carries it back out of there, and tries to find someone he knows.

It takes a minute, but eventually, he spots Liam.

"Hey," Harry greets him once he makes his way across the room.

"Hey, mate," Liam says, raising his own drink in a semi-salute. "Did you just get here?"

"Kind of," Harry shrugs. He knows he's a little late. He knows it's less than an hour until midnight. Maybe he'd procrastinated on the way out of his flat, maybe he'd held off on coming here for as long as he could manage. Maybe he's not as ready to see Louis again as he'd hoped he would be. But he does want to see him. "Is Louis around?"

"He just left to use the toilet," Liam tells him, the slightest hint of suspicion in his tone. "Why? Did something happen? I feel like he's been on edge all night."

"Has he?" Harry asks, insides doing this odd little flutter.

"Yeah," Liam says. "He seems a bit distracted. I heard Travis is getting better though? Louis said his pneumonia's going away. I haven't been able to visit lately, but Tommo went this morning when he got back, not for work, but just to see Trav."

"Oh," Harry says, a bit surprised. He takes a long sip from his drink, struggles to swallow it. He hasn't been able to bring himself to visit Travis since everything happened with Louis, his heart too overloaded with guilt to set foot in that hospital room so soon.

Apparently it's not an issue for Louis.

Harry doesn't know what that's supposed to mean.

"Have you seen him since the pneumonia started clearing?" Liam has to ask. "Is he looking any better?"

"I- I've been kind of busy lately," Harry tells him. Busy sleeping with Travis' best friend, he thinks before he can stop himself. Wincing inwardly, he tries to shake the thought from his head, tries to remember everything he'd repeated to himself earlier about it being okay, but it's pretty loud in Niall's flat and even the music and the chatter can't silence certain things.

"That's alright," Liam says as if he can hear the argument in Harry's head. "I know it's not easy for you to be there for him, but you're trying. You're still there for him more than I am."

"I don't know about that," Harry says with a dry huff of a laugh. He tries to hide his grimace behind his glass as he pours another sip down the back of his throat. He swallows. "You said Louis went to use the bathroom?"

"Yeah," Liam says, frowning as he peers over Harry's shoulder to see if he can spot Louis anywhere. "He should have been out by now."

"Perhaps there's a queue," Harry suggests, but when he turns his head to check, he sees the door is cracked open down the hallway and nobody is waiting outside.

"Maybe he went to get another drink," Liam suggests.

"Maybe," Harry says and sucks the rest of his own drink down in one quick go. He can feel the alcohol burn on the way to his stomach, warming him up from the inside out. "I think I need a refill. Can I get you anything?"

Liam just stares at him, a little confused, a little curious. "No, I'm alright, thanks."

"Cheers," Harry says and leaves him with a pat on the shoulder, heading back to the kitchen before Liam can stop and question him.

Except the kitchen is devoid of anyone even remotely resembling Louis when Harry pops his head back in. His brow furrows, his stomach churning all over again as he mixes himself another drink anyway, feeling suddenly like he's on a wild goose chase, like Louis might be evading him and tonight might very well turn out to be a disaster after all.

He pulls out his phone and finds no missed calls or unread messages. "Shit."

"Everything okay, kid?"

Harry whips his head around, his drink nearly sloshing over the rim of his glass. It's Abby this time. And Pete.

"I'm not really sure," he admits, the buzz starting to kick in.

"Here," Abby says and pulls a cigarette and lighter from her pocket. "You look like you could use one."

Harry takes them from her with the hand gripping his phone, fingers closing awkwardly around all three items.

"Thanks," he says, "I think?"

"It's almost midnight," Abby reminds him, even though there's still time to go. "Finish your drink and go have a smoke. You don't want to cross over into the new year looking like you've swallowed a pine cone."

She's right. Harry hates that she's right.

He lets out a quiet sigh, a forced, steadying breath. "Bad luck, innit?"

"Something like that." Abby nods.

As Harry exits the kitchen, he takes one last look around the living room, doesn't see Louis anywhere, not by Liam, not by Niall, not outside the bathroom. He unlocks his phone as he ducks out of the flat and heads downstairs, ready to give Louis a call and find out whether he's actually abandoned the party or not. But the door at the bottom of the stairwell swings open just as he pulls up Louis' number, and Harry freezes.

"Oh," Louis says abruptly, stumbling to his own stop as the door falls shut behind him. "Hey."

His cheeks are pink from being outside, his hair a little windswept. The sound of his voice after not hearing it for an entire week has Harry's head spinning.

"I was just about to call you," is the first thing Harry manages to say. He holds up his phone as if to show Louis, realizes it doesn't matter anymore, slips it back into his pocket. "Sorry, I couldn't find you inside, and Liam said you were using the toilet, but then I-"

"Can we talk?" Louis interrupts him, leaving them in tense, needling silence.

Harry bites down on the inside of his mouth, his knuckles going white around his glass. He tucks the cigarette behind his ear and pockets the lighter beside his phone.

"Yeah," he says, the inevitable finally coming to pass. "Yeah, let's- let's talk."

He starts back down the rest of the stairs, one careful step at a time, Louis meeting him somewhere in the middle and opting to take a seat. Harry lowers himself into the space next to him, the two of them blocking the staircase, knees almost touching, elbows almost touching, almost.

"What are you drinking?" Louis asks, peering into Harry's full cup.

Harry tips it for him to see. "Vodka cranberry."

"Classy," Louis says. "Can I try?"

"Go for it," Harry tells him, passing his cup over for Louis to take a sip.

He makes the mistake of watching the line of Louis' throat move as he swallows, remembers all too well what it had felt like to press his lips against the skin there and feel Louis' pulse flutter beneath it. He's so, so screwed.

"Not bad," Louis comments as he thumbs at his upper lip and hands the drink back over, their fingers brushing. "Good work, Styles."

"Thanks," Harry says quietly before taking another sip of his own. "Did you have a nice holiday?"

"I did."

"And a nice birthday?"

"It's always nice seeing my family," Louis tells him, hooking his arms around his bent knees. "I'm glad you got to see yours."

"Me too." Harry nods. He exhales out a quiet breath, clears his throat a little. "I'm sorry I never called you. Really, I just- I mean, like, I wanted to. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to hear your voice. I just... I needed-"

"Needed some time?" Louis finishes for him, peering over at Harry's hands in his own lap.

"Yeah," Harry says. "Is that okay?"

He tilts his head enough to catch Louis biting his lip, searching for the right words to say. Maybe it's not okay, maybe Harry shouldn't have waited so long to text him, maybe he should have just picked up the phone and called.

"I just don't know how you feel about it all anymore," Louis says after a moment. "Like, I thought I did when I left to go home- at least for the most part. But now I'm not so sure."

"My feelings haven't changed," Harry tries to assure him.

"Which means what exactly?" Louis asks. "I'm going to need you to put it in words."

Harry lets out a quiet sigh.

"It means I'm fucking terrified," he admits, nails pressing into the sides of his cup. "You're Travis' best friend. I'm his ex-boyfriend. I don't want to think about it like that, but sometimes I just can't help it, and it's... it's terrifying. What we did is terrifying. We're not-" He takes another deep breath, tries to shake his nerves off. "Everything says we're not supposed to feel anything for each other, but I... I feel something for you."

"You do?" Louis asks, staring down at his knees again.

"I do," Harry says, voice quiet. "And I'm scared out of my mind about what that might mean for us."

He's scared that things might unravel, that they might not go the way he'd like them to, that they could get worse at a time when everything already seems like it's the worst it can be. He pulls the cigarette from behind his ear as his stomach continues to tie itself in knots, flips it between his fingers, just needing something to distract him from the complete silence on Louis' end.

And then Louis shuffles his feet a fraction, his shoes scuffing along the stairs, the only sound in the stairwell apart from the music drifting down from Niall's flat.

"Okay," he says, like he's still processing the information.

Harry thinks about pulling out the lighter and just lighting up inside the building. "Okay?"

"You're terrified," Louis says, "but you don't- do you regret it? Do you think we shouldn't have done it?"

Harry shakes his head.

"No," he says before Louis can start to spiral down that hole. "No, I don't regret it."

"But that scares you too?"

He takes the cigarette from Harry's fingers and sets it on the step between them.

"That..." Harry clears his throat. "I think that's what scares me the most."

Another heavy silence falls down on them, and he thinks about pouring the rest of his drink straight into his stomach, Louis not saying a single word for what feels like the longest moment, leaving Harry in the dark for an unnerving amount of time.

When he finally does speak, his voice is low, careful, his nails biting into the denim of his jeans.

"Me too," is all he says, and Harry's heart clenches.

"You too?"

"To all of it," Louis clarifies, glancing over at him. "I don't regret it either. I- I feel guilty as _fuck_ about it, but I don't think it was a mistake. Maybe, like, I should have waited until the circumstances were a little better-"

"That's my fault," Harry apologizes, wincing.

"No, it's fine," Louis insists, lowering his hands to rest around the bottom of his shins, "I just don't want you to think I was - I don't know - taking advantage of you or anything."

He throws Harry a look that says he's just as unsure about this as Harry is, and that's... that's oddly comforting. That makes this a little less daunting, somehow.

"I know you weren't," Harry says, because he does, because he'd been just as insistent once they'd started, because he remembers Louis pausing to ask him multiple times if what they were doing had been okay.

"And Travis..." Louis starts. "Travis is my best mate, but I'm my own person."

"You can't help who you might feel things for," Harry says, remember what his mum had told him. He's trying.

Louis nods, a little sad, a little tired. "I can't help that I feel something for you."

It's like another weight falls off of Harry's shoulders. The knots in his stomach loosen. The buzzing beneath his skin settles to a dull thrum in his veins.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Louis says, and he finally dares to breach the space between them, knuckles running along the outside of Harry's calf. "So we're alright?"

"We're alright," Harry murmurs, reaching out to take his hand.

"You not answering my calls or texting me all week wasn't because you never wanted to see me again?"

"I'm sitting right next to you," Harry points out, giving his fingers a little squeeze. "If I never wanted to see you again or talk to you again, do you think I'd be here?"

"Is that a no?" Louis asks, and Harry realizes he needs to hear it, needs to hear the words fall out of his mouth, that it's not because he hadn't wanted to see him again, that it's not because he'd regretted it and wanted out.

"It's a no," Harry promises him. "And I'm sorry if I made you think that."

"I mean, you showing up two hours late tonight didn't help much," Louis tries to tease, but Harry can hear the hint of insecurity behind it.

"I'm sorry," he says again. He is. "I'm here now."

The tight corners of Louis' mouth smooth a little. "You are."

"And I don't... I don't want to lose you," Harry tells him quietly, ignoring the way his heart thuds against his ribs like the hard beat of a drum. He's already lost Travis. He can't lose Louis too. He stares down at the contents of his cup, gives them a little swirl, the ice clinking against the edges. "I don't want to lose you," he says again. "Whether that means we stay friends or- or something more, I don't know, but I don't want the fact that we hooked up to ruin everything between us."

"It won't," Louis promises. He lifts their linked hands, presses the softest kiss to the back of Harry's.

"Lou," Harry says, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm not going to run," Louis tells him. "It's not... it's not going to be easy with everything with Travis. Like, I'm not him, I'm not the same person you dated."

"I know that," Harry murmurs.

"And he doesn't make this easy," Louis continues, shaking his head. "He makes this really, really hard, actually. But I'm- I'm kind of struggling not to think about kissing you in the middle of this stairwell tonight, and that should probably tell you all you need to know."

The heat returns to Harry's cheeks. He's already hyper aware of the weight of Louis' hand in his own, but he tries to ignore it, lifts his cup to his mouth again and takes another long sip. He feels like he should probably have five more of these coursing through his bloodstream by now.

"You could always just do it," he says without meeting Louis' eyes.

"I could," Louis says and takes the cup from Harry's fingers again for his own shot of courage. "But I already tried that route, and it ended with you not calling me back for a week."

Harry shrugs. "Maybe it won't this time."

"Yeah?" Louis asks.

"Yeah," Harry tells him, and just as Louis goes to pass the cup back and starts to bridge the distance between them like he might actually do it, the door bangs opens on the landing above them and a set of footsteps comes sounding down.

They turn away at the same time, Louis already moving to stand and make room for the person to squeeze past them, but it's only Liam. Harry's heart feels like it might throw itself from his chest, it's beating so hard.

"Ditching the party already?" Liam calls down to them, poking his head over the side of the railing as he comes down another level. He's wearing a goofy pair of cardboard glasses, cut into the shape of the year they're about to roll into.

"Just went out to have a smoke," Louis tells him, standing anyway and offering Harry a hand to help him to his feet like he hadn't just been about to kiss him. "Nice glasses. Is Niall making everyone wear them?"

"He's sure trying," Liam says with a laugh, oblivious. "I snagged two extra for you and Harry. Are you coming back up soon?"

"Why?" Louis asks. "Is it almost midnight?"

"Almost," Liam says. "I think they're starting to pass around the champagne. You two don't want to miss the countdown."

"We won't," Louis promises.

"We'll be up in a minute," Harry says, remembering painfully the warning Liam had given him in the elevator when Travis had first caught pneumonia. "Save us a drink."

Liam doesn't question it, hopefully just assumes they're catching up after a week apart. He shoots them a thumbs-up before disappearing back up the stairs, Louis waiting for the sound of his footsteps to disappear, for the door to open and shut again, before he turns to face Harry.

He lets out a heavy sigh.

"Thanks, Liam," he says.

Harry just leans back against the railing with a quiet laugh, puts some space between them, knows he probably shouldn't try kissing Louis anyway if people like Liam or Niall might come poking their heads out into the stairwell. He doesn't think Niall would mind - he might even encourage it - but Liam's another story. Liam might not be so receptive, and they probably should have thought about that earlier.

"So now what?" Louis asks.

"Now, we go back to the party," Harry says, sadly.

The corner of Louis' mouth twitches. "I meant for us," he clarifies. "What's next for us? Are we sticking with just friends? Or is it okay if we're a little more than that?"

"You mean, is it okay if you kiss me," Harry assumes.

"I mean that, too." Louis nods.

Harry forces his eyes away from Louis' mouth. "I think... I think it would be okay if you wanted to kiss me again. And if you didn't..."

"Then that would be okay too," Louis finishes for him.

"Yeah," Harry says, because it would be. Maybe it would hurt just a little, but it would hurt far less than Louis not wanting anything to do with him again.

"Well," Louis says, "I do want to kiss you. So there's that."

"There's that."

"It's definitely a bit terrifying," he adds.

It is.

"I've already had my heart broken once by a boy from Doncaster," Harry reminds him, kicking his foot out to bump the toe of Louis' shoe. He peers up at him, finds him staring back, neither of them wanting to rejoin the party just yet.

"I'm not here to break any hearts," is all Louis says before he pushes off the wall. "Come on, let's get up there before we miss the countdown."

"We're not going to miss it," Harry insists, but he follows Louis all the same, their arms brushing, fingers catching as they climb the stairs. He doesn't take Louis' hand, but he lets their fingers linger together for a moment, and it's enough. For the first time in several weeks, he doesn't feel like he's lying to himself when he thinks he might actually be okay for a bit.

They shuffle back in through the door, Louis leading the way, Harry's hand coming to rest on the small of his back just so Louis knows he's following. Liam's waiting for them across the living room, two extra champagne glasses held precariously in one hand, two extra sets of year-specific glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.

Louis grabs one of each, passes them back to Harry, all three of them looking absolutely ridiculous once they've all slid the glasses up their noses.

"Will you still talk to me if I wear these every day for the next year?" Louis asks, turning to face Harry.

"Absolutely," Harry answers. He goes to try the champagne but Louis just about slaps the glass away from his mouth.

"Not before midnight!" he scolds over the music.

"What?" Harry frowns. "Is that a rule?"

"Yes."

But it doesn't matter because the countdown on Niall's television kicks in and all around them, everyone starts chanting the numbers, counting backwards from thirty, some better at keeping in sync than others.

With ten seconds left, Harry feels Louis' fingers close around his own.

At five seconds, he glances over, meets Louis' gaze.

He's not going to kiss him. He'd like to, but not like this.

And then the clock rolls over and the room erupts in cheers, and some of the people around them share quick or not so quick kisses of their own, but Harry just holds Louis' stare with his glittering, cardboard glasses, holds his hand, and that's enough.

If someone had asked him a year ago where he thought he'd be today, what he'd be doing, who he'd be with, surely, this is not the answer he would have given.

And that's alright.

\---

At the end of the night, Louis climbs into the back of a cab with him and gives the driver their two separate addresses, effectively silencing any questions Harry might have had with regards to their plans continuing past the party.

"Is that okay?" Louis asks, fumbling with his seatbelt, his eyes a little glazed over after drinking his fair share.

Harry isn't much better off.

"Yeah, it's- it's fine," he says around a gigantic yawn. "I can hardly keep my eyes open."

"I see that," Louis laughs before he, too, falls victim to the yawning.

As soon as the cab pulls away from the curb, he tips his head onto Harry's shoulder, having chosen the middle seat along the bench for this very reason.

It's nice. Harry could get used to this.

He sets his hand on Louis' thigh and relaxes against the door, tries to let the feeling sink in and set roots down in his chest, in his heart. It's like there's been nothing but thorns inside of him since everything had started falling apart. Maybe now, something else can begin to grow.

It doesn't take long for the cab to slow to a stop outside of Harry's flat. Harry takes his time paying, doesn't want to leave Louis just yet, even if they aren't saying much. He tries to ignore the pang of guilt when he counts out the bills and hands his cash over.

"Could you just wait here a minute?" he hears Louis ask the driver just before he opens his mouth to say goodnight.

"Are you going to walk me to my door?" Harry asks with a little snort as Louis nudges him out of the car.

"I'm indeed going to walk you to your door," he says, closing the cab door behind them.

"You're going to say goodnight like a true gentleman?" Harry teases. He tries to get his keys out of his pocket, fingers struggling to pull them free.

"I'm going to make sure you can actually get the lock open," Louis corrects, fingers closing around Harry's wrist and removing his hand from inside his coat so he can fish the keys out himself. When he finally gets them free, he flips through the set until he finds the silver one he wants. "This one, right?"

"Correct," Harry says, impressed. He leans against the doorway and watches Louis unlock his door for him. "Are you going to kiss me goodnight?" he asks before he can stop himself.

Perhaps he's more drunk than he'd realized.

Louis just lets out another quiet laugh as he pushes the door in, jiggles Harry's key from the lock, and drops the set into the open palm of Harry's hand.

"Would it be alright if I did?" he asks, looking up at Harry, eyes dark in the shadows of the night.

"I think so," Harry says. He takes a step forward.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Harry nods, and then he ducks his head just slightly, lets his eyes fall shut, and meets Louis halfway for a kiss that's sweet and long and lingering, nothing like the frantic and heated press of their lips an entire week ago.

Louis' mouth is soft against his. His hands are gentle on his waist. Harry doesn't want to have to say goodnight.

"I have to go," Louis murmurs as he pulls back, leaving just their foreheads touching.

"You could stay," Harry suggests instead, moving to catch Louis' lips once more.

Louis lets him, kisses him back for another quiet moment before he pulls away completely.

"Get some sleep, Harry," he says. "I'll text you when I get home."

He leaves Harry with a kiss on the cheek and a glance over his shoulder as he walks off towards the waiting cab. There's a frozen bite to the air and it's late, it's dark, and it feels like Harry's been struggling to stay awake for far longer than he actually has been. He waits until Louis is inside with the door shut, waits until the cab drives off and out of sight, before he goes upstairs, undresses, falls into his bed, and lets his body shut off for what feels like the longest, deepest sleep he's had in three months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in another 7 months! Just kidding. Hopefully.
> 
> [tumblr](http://anylessreal.tumblr.com/).
> 
> [fic post](https://anylessreal.tumblr.com/post/178161636075/twist-and-then-collide-part-2-of-4).


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